


What If God Was One of Us?

by elisi, promethia_tenk



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Crowley introspection, Doctor angst (we loves it precious), Even Lucifer gets character development, First Kiss, Gen, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, No really - actual literal world building, Oh the Romance!, Poetry, The Garden of Eden, The Great Plan (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), The Thirteenth Doctor is the God of Good Omens, We all know the Doctor has a god complex, Why did Crowley fall?, You too will love Gabriel, and how!, so much world building, they're all idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisi/pseuds/elisi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/promethia_tenk/pseuds/promethia_tenk
Summary: What if… the Thirteenth Doctor was the God of Good Omens?(waits)I mean. How could Inotwrite it?Also there are not enough fics that take God’s POV and motivations into account. Especially when God is as daft as a brush.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 582
Kudos: 256





	1. Happily Ever After?

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to [everything_rhymes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everything_rhymes/pseuds/everything_rhymes), whose idea it first was. 
> 
> With thanks to [purplefringe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefringe/pseuds/purplefringe) for [‘Yellow’](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21272798) (fab joyous Thirteen & fam vid) which somehow hit exactly the right spot for the crack to start flowing).
> 
> The most thanks to my two (TWO! I am truly spoiled) betas: To [Juliet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/pseuds/juliet) for general awesomeness and attention to detail, and to [promethia_tenk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/promethia_tenk/pseuds/promethia_tenk) for not just being a Bitcheditor from Hell, but also being my Terry and making the story 17% funnier. If you laugh, it’s likely to be one of her lines.
> 
> Also please note that this story is gonna be skipping along the timeline, filling in a lot of blanks. Wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey and all that jazz, since I love nothing more than marrying up canons and exploring the blanks. Also meta. (The meta just… happens.) I hope you’ll enjoy the ride. (Please note: This is NOT a Through-the-Ages fic.)
> 
> More tags/characters will be added later. At the moment, I am projecting this will be 10 chapters long. 
> 
> Setting: post-S11. And I will do my very very best to have NO Season 12 spoilers. ETA: Alas, a couple spoilers have appeared - the biggest one for the end of _Spyfall_ , the two-part S12 opener.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whatever Crowley and Aziraphale are, it's a love story._  
>  Neil Gaiman ([x](https://twitter.com/neilhimself/status/1137370226931228672))  
> ~  
>  _AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know… go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz._  
>  ~  
>  _CROWLEY: There’s just God. Moving in mysterious ways and NOT TALKING TO ANY OF US._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I need to warn for cliché abuse?

  


It was going to be a _Special Day_.

Aziraphale was certain of this, hence the Capitalisation. 

It was mid-morning, the sun was playfully battling the clouds above, and he was hesitating over whether to open the bookshop or not.

By now it had been several weeks since Armageddon turned into a damp squib — weeks of bliss, since Heaven and Hell had clearly decided to stay clear of him and Crowley both, leaving the two of them to do whatever they pleased. 

Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever being this absolutely and completely happy. There was a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye; had someone stuck a beard and a red coat on him he would have been indistinguishable from Father Christmas, such was the joy he radiated. 

But he wasn’t Saint Nicholas (lovely chap, he and Aziraphale had gotten on very well, and Aziraphale might have had a hand in a few of the miracles). No, Aziraphale was an angel in love, a wholly unique phenomenon. He’d never heard of any of the other angels falling in love, and certainly not with a _demon_ … (The best demon there ever was, the handsomest, the kindest, the most wonderful and impossible… he often got a little carried away when thinking about Crowley).

Having spent actual centuries denying how he felt, finally being able to quite simply _be himself_ and _be honest about his feelings_ was more or less exactly like a whole bunch of Christmases all landing one day after another, except he was simultaneously Santa _and_ the one receiving the presents. It wasn’t just the dinners and the walks, or the days out and the late nights in (all without constantly having to look over their shoulders) although that was certainly part of it. 

No, there was a whole other dimension.

Ever since the bus ride back from Tadfield when he had, with more boldness than he had ever expected of himself, taken Crowley’s hand, they had danced around… _them_. Because with all barriers removed, all that was stopping them was, well, themselves. And so they moved in ever decreasing circles: holding hands; lingering touches and lingering looks; what could only be described as _cuddling_ , curled up together late at night on the sofa in the backroom.

Yesterday they had gone to the countryside for a picnic and, as evening turned to night, had ended up stargazing — the two of them curled up together under a blanket like two peas in a pod — as the demon pointed out the stars he had worked on long ago. When he had dropped Aziraphale off at his shop, long past midnight, he had leaned in and dropped a kiss on the Aziraphale’s cheek, featherlight and gentle, before softly whispering _‘Goodnight angel’_ , and Aziraphale had thought he might discorporate on the spot. Sir Thomas Browne had been entirely too on the money:

_‘I hope I do not break the fifth commandment, if I conceive I may love my friend before the nearest of my blood, even those to whom I owe the principles of life. I never yet cast a true affection on a woman; but I have loved my friend as I do virtue, my soul, my God.’_

And so today… Today would be the day. He could feel it — the heady joy of anticipation; the wishing for Crowley to appear this instant, wondering what his demon had planned. Yes, last night had been perfect, but today… Today there would be A Real Kiss, he _knew_ it. Like celestial bodies orbiting each other, drawing closer and closer, their momentum had reached a tipping point. Today they would collide.

So no, he would _not_ be opening the shop, even if he could probably do with a distraction until Crowley appeared. 

It _was_ going to be a Special Day.

No sooner had he made this decision than the doors opened with a snap of magic, and Crowley appeared. Aziraphale found himself almost frozen on the spot, such love choking him that he was momentarily unable to move. 

_‘When I am apart from him, I am dead till I be with him; when I am with him, I am not satisfied but would still be nearer him. United souls are not satisfied with embraces, but desire to be truly each other.’_

(At this point the reader is welcome to insert an expansive and sexy description of Crowley — especially the latter, since Aziraphale had only very very recently allowed himself to consider Crowley as an object of desire and discovered that… well, he desired rather a lot. To the point that he was considering whether they might make an Effort…)

In a moment Crowley was in front of him, reaching out.

“Angel?” he asked, and in that instant the sun won the battle against the clouds, the sunlight pouring down on them from the skylight above.

Without a word Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s lapels and leaned forwards, looking into Crowley’s beautiful serpentine eyes. (Where the glasses had gone he neither noticed nor cared.)

_This was it._

Six thousand years of waiting, and finally the moment had arrived.

No words were needed as their lips met, and Aziraphale was sure he could hear music swelling and birds singing as pure joy swept over him. 

_‘I know someone who kisses the way / a flower opens, but more rapidly.’_

The angel found himself being pulled closer as his demon responded, deepening the kiss, lifetimes of longing poured into a single moment, leaving them both breathless when they finally pulled apart, flush and lightheaded, and certain that now, everything would be perfect. 

Tiny motes danced in the sunlight, and Crowley’s hair looked almost like a copper halo; Aziraphale smiled and thought his heart might explode with happiness, saw his smile mirrored on Crowley’s face, no hint of the fear and uncertainty that had haunted them for so long. They belonged to each other, _together_ , on the same side, and nothing could now change that.

_‘Yes, yes! We are the lucky ones.’_

And then there was a small noise. A small noise that was not supposed to be there. Had a customer somehow made their way through the locked door?

Turning their heads in perfect unison, arms still around each other, they were both of them ready to get rid of the intruder by whatever means necessary — even if that might require removing them to outer Mongolia post-haste. 

And then, for the second time within a few minutes, time seemed to freeze. 

Registering _who_ the interloper was, Aziraphale felt faint. If Crowley’s arms hadn’t been around him still, he might quite simply have collapsed on the floor.

“Oh my good Lord,” he whispered, but She merely smiled — that wide, bright smile that made everything else seem dim — and said:

“Yeah, that’s me. Um, hi?” 

She did a little wave. 

(It was definitely Her. Despite the strange outfit — long white-ish coat, burgundy top with rainbow stripes, blue culottes and sturdy brown boots — there was no mistaking the Almighty.)

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your special moment, _sorry_.” 

She pulled an apologetic face, before continuing, the smiling brightness resuming: “Although — for the record — can I just say that you two are _quite literally_ the cutest thing I have _ever_ seen.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no sound came out. 

Six thousand years. 

Six thousand years of _complete silence_ , including _The End of the World_ and now here She was — in his _shop_ — and was saying that… that… There was a strange ringing in his ears, and although he had no personal experience with sleeping or dreaming he suspected that this might be a perfect example. This couldn’t possibly be real.

Then he felt Crowley’s fingers dig into his back, the demon’s whole body tensing in clear anger, before speaking:

“Where the He- Where have you _been_?”

~o~

Before we find out God’s reply to _that_ question, it would be useful to look into some more fundamental queries first: 

For example, we know _when_ the world was created. A far more pertinent question would be _why_.

That, however, is a question God has adroitly avoided for a very long time indeed.

Some would say it’s ineffable. Others would mutter about poker games in dark rooms with blank cards. (She’d think poker terribly exciting and make up the rules as She went along, so they’re actually not far off.)

But _personally_ , God blamed the clockwork squirrel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because no Good Omens fic is complete without crediting the poetry/literature quoted. 
> 
> The two first quotes are from Sir Thomas Browne’s **Religio Medici** (The Religion of a Physician).
> 
> I feel I should point out that my knowledge of the second of those quotes comes from [Gaudy Night](https://www.fadedpage.com/showbook.php?pid=20140201) by Dorothy L. Sayers (hereby wholeheartedly recommended, if anyone fancies a 1930s detective story set in a women’s college in Oxford, with pages upon pages of women discussing science and philosophy and art and truth, and also featuring the kind of love story that uses quotes like the one above). Anyway, the quote struck me as appropriate so I decided to look it up, and it was even better than I thought, and there was more to it! :) [Here is background on the quotes themselves](https://www.brainpickings.org/2017/07/31/thomas-browne-romantic-friendship/), and [here](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/16359/16359-h/16359-h.htm) is more on Sir Thomas Browne and Religio Medici.
> 
> ~
> 
> The kissing quote is by Mary Oliver: [‘I know someone’](https://www.poeticous.com/mary-oliver/i-know-someone) from _Devotions_.


	2. In the Beginning…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters._  
>  Genesis 1, 1-2
> 
> _AMY: ‘Time Lord’ is just what they're called. It doesn't mean they actually know what they’re doing._  
>  The Doctor’s Wife (S6.04) (slightly paraphrased)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Good Omens_ is rather vague on how and why the world was created. Also it never mentions the clockwork squirrel. Here I attempt to fill in a few blanks. 
> 
> (I feel very cheeky, but also that it's in the spirit of the story.)
> 
> Also, for any Good Omens fans unfamiliar with Doctor Who/the Thirteenth Doctor, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5WHKfJ-As8) is a delightful little (post-S11) vid showcasing her in all her ridiculous glory. Like before, no S12 spoilers here or anywhere.

Our story begins on a Sunday morning at 9.10 a.m. because the Doctor liked to get work done early in the morning while she was feeling fresh.

‘Work’, however, is a very flexible word in this context. Simply put, the Doctor had come across a rift in time and space and had decided to seal it up — something which would require a fair bit of work. Now for regular people (your average human, say, or an Ood, or one of the more advanced slime moulds), it wouldn’t be ‘work’ so much as an unfortunate run-in with the substrate of the universe, ending in untimely death or perhaps an unplanned one-way trip to Cardiff.

But for the Doctor — a super-intelligent space alien with the ability to manipulate time and space — it was an enjoyable task livening up an otherwise dull morning, and one which made her feel like a veritable friendly neighbourhood spiderman, helping out the local galaxy. Or rather (what with not being man-shaped anymore) maybe more like a spiderwoman. Not that she was technically a _woman_ either… And since she had once met something that could accurately be described as a _spider_ -woman, and given that she was far less red than a Rachnoss and had far fewer legs, maybe not a spiderwoman either…

Whatever she was, rifts like this had a tendency to suck things out of the known universe and spit them out goodness knew where: pocket universes with hungry planets for example, or the Void between dimensions where Nothing At All Exists (not even _Countdown_ or _Supermarket Sweep_ , which many people would of course consider a bonus), or, as stated above, occasionally Cardiff. In times past, as any of the Doctor’s surviving companions can verify, a disproportionate number of them would lead to empty quarries, but these had seemingly fallen out of favour. The reasons for this sudden restructuring of the cosmic system of Snakes and Ladders are far too esoteric to go into here. For the sake of the story, we shall simply call them ineffable and move on. 

The Doctor — certain that there were still _entirely too many quarries_ in her life, thank you very much, and keen to reduce the chance of people accidentally popping up in them — decided that the main thing was the fact that she was friendly and helpful. She liked to focus on the positives, especially recently. She’d been a rather glum and serious character in her previous regeneration, and she was determined to turn her frown upside down.

Happily she was quite the dab hand at sealing space-time rifts, even if she said so herself (and since there was no one with her at that moment, she only had herself to talk to). After all she’d only been a kid of ninety-seven the first time she tackled one, so this morning should be a doddle. There was also the fact that there was no army of irate pepper-pots bearing down on her, nor a big countdown clock to beat. (Not that additional motivation was a bad thing, but now and again it was nice to do something just for the fun of it.)

“The Doctor to the rescue!” she said, pleased, before opening the lab that should contain the relevant tools. Then her face fell a bit.

Imagine a Star Trek spaceship, all white and gleaming and shiny (before it gets shot at by the Bad Guys, of course, and goes all charred and bravely-carrying-on instead). Then imagine their labs and storage facilities: Maybe not quite as white, but still gleaming and shiny and beautifully organised. Complete with well-trained and efficient technicians who know where everything is.

Now imagine the opposite.

The Doctor was generally in favour of mess and chaos (much to her companions’ continued chagrin), but only her own. Well. To her it wasn’t ‘mess’ or ’chaos’ it was just putting things where she needed them to be — usually in the last place she’d used them — and if no one else seemed to be able to understand this… well, that wasn’t her problem. Her TARDIS, her rules.

But having (fairly recently, all told) allowed her arch-nemesis-who-was-most-definitely-on-the-path-to-redemption to do some maintenance on the engines (an exploding star in the act of becoming a black hole suspended in a permanent state of decay _does_ need a bit of looking after, and the only place doing MOTs for TARDISes was a place she had no intention of returning to within the next few millennia), she now found herself looking at _Someone Else’s Mess_. Because Missy had quite clearly decided to make herself at home.

Frowning at the lab, the Doctor couldn’t ascertain any logic to the new order — there were random jars of DNA samples arranged along the shelves, plus containers with every kind of explosive she could think of, and she was sure that the engines hadn’t used to be _literally_ next door. She'd spent half a past regeneration looking for the tartan bowtie that was now stringing up an improvised set of distillation tubes. The bowtie was, of course, still cool; the distillation tubes . . . okay, they were pretty cool too, but the Doctor wasn't about to admit that. And was that a soil sample from Earth next to the stuffed swan?

Plus, where had all her tools gone?

Sighing, and putting down her lovely fresh cup of tea on the nearest flat surface, she admitted to herself that the rift would clearly have to wait while she moved the lab somewhere less… _volatile_. Opening the door to the engine room she frowned at The Eye of Harmony and wondered why in the name of sanity Missy would want a lab full of hazardous items next to the single most dangerous place in the whole ship. Not liking any of the possible answers to that question, she dismissed the thought. She was quite good at that this time round, which was nice.

So — the first thing to do, before she started to tackle the rift, was to move this room somewhere safer. A single mishap, and the TARDIS could explode ( _again_!)… Of course she couldn’t just move the lab without replacing it with something else, and unfortunately there really wasn’t a good option. What had been here before? Just corridors, she seemed to recall. Lots and lots of corridors. Excellent for grabbing someone’s hand and running around trying to cheat death, which was also a fun way to spend a morning… (The Doctor’s notions of ‘fun’ tended to involve running for her life and lots of explosions, although she was also partial to a nice scone with clotted cream. Her interests were many and varied and not particularly predictable unless you knew her well.)

As she pondered the question, slowly closing the door — before her face melted off and she became a recurring monster, _not_ an experience she wanted to repeat — the clockwork squirrel on the top shelf decided to attempt a can-can. Ascertaining the motivations of a clockwork squirrel is a fool’s errand, but it’s possible that it was a vain attempt at gaining its creator’s attention (a goal it would achieve out of all proportion). It had been relegated to the top shelf by the Doctor after she got cross with it one day for getting fresh with the toaster, and it had become very bored and rather dusty sitting there. The relegation had happened before Missy had entered the scene, and whether a semi-sentient clockwork squirrel fitted into her enigmatic plans, or whether she just couldn’t be bothered to move it, no one would ever find out. All that matters for the current development of things is that it toppled over the edge and hit the Doctor squarely on the head. As she scrambled for purchase she sent one of the jars flying, and — clearly not wanting to be alone in its sudden battle with gravity — it made sure to send every other jar flying with it on its way down.

The jars (shattering quite spectacularly) hit some glass-blowing tubes (bought for a song in Venice in the 15th century), which in turn knocked over a barrel of gunpowder… The barrel then barrelled along merrily knocking over, in turn: a box of welding goggles, several canisters of compressed air, her old umbrella, a potted ficus with some alarming-looking mutations, a table-top particle accelerator (imagine an Easy-Bake Oven for a Time Tot) and the table along with it, the lab's swivel chair, most of a box of a dozen doughnuts (stale), one very surprised goldfish, one less surprised goldfish bowl, a small clutch of bunsen burners, and a Best of Queen CD. In no time at all the whole conglomeration was heading straight towards the Doctor.

Flinging herself against the wall in self-preservation, the Doctor — fractions of a second too late — realised that she was still holding onto the door handle, and had thus thrown the door wide open once more. As she watched the entropic jumble careen towards the engines, the usual multitude of timelines narrowed down to a single, very unwelcome, outcome. 

And then everything exploded. (It was 9.15 a.m precisely.)

The Doctor’s last conscious thought was that maybe she should stop thinking of explosions as ‘fun’.

~o~

Still being alive was a nice surprise.

The Doctor _loved_ surprises, and still being alive was one of her favourite ones. (Except for that one time, but she was _very_ good at ignoring the fact that her past self had been literally suicidal. Especially since dying had cured the urge.)

Even more of a surprise was the fact that, although her clothes were a blackened and charred mess, she still had the same face.

“Nice one!” she remarked to the similarly charred walls before unsteadily getting to her feet and looking around, gratefully noting that somehow the door was now closed…

But something felt _off_ , although she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She’d been blown up enough times to know that it wasn’t just a burst eardrum or similar, it was more like the universe had shifted… Which couldn’t be right, but was worrying nonetheless.

Her pleasure at having survived began to segue into concern, and then into an urgent need to establish _why things felt so wrong_. Which meant moving and walking and staying upright, which was going to be a challenge. Whenever she ran into Missy again, the Doctor would be giving her one _hell_ of a lecture on proper storage of dangerous materials, and no mistake. As she groggily made her way to the control room she mentally composed said lecture, including many subsections and sidebars. The Doctor was _cross_ and very much needed someone to yell at; she was covered in soot and grime and there was residual pain all over her body; all the interior corridors had apparently rearranged themselves; and dammit, why did this _always_ happen? She’d bet her singed eyebrows that she’d run out of custard creams too. It seemed to be shaping up to be that sort of day. Her favourite question mark umbrella had exploded, and so had her tea, so she couldn’t even have a cuppa to regain some strength.

Eventually — after miles of dull, dull corridors that made her worry she was in a time-loop, because wouldn’t that just be the perfect end to this inventory of mishaps? — she more or less fell into the vast dark expanse of the control room, the golden-yellow time crystals like the beacons of Gondor, beckoning her home. (She felt she was allowed to add a bit of drama to her rather tedious staggering along. She liked drama.)

“Well Old Girl, give it to me straight,” she declared, squaring her shoulders as she grabbed the monitor to discover what had actually happened and just how bad the damage was. Exactly how ruined was her Sunday morning?

Staring at the screen the Doctor’s jaw slowly dropped as the information slunk past her disgruntled mood and connected with her brain. The brain (synapses snapping to attention and shaking off the effects of having being relegated to maintaining basic functions like ‘make sure the legs are walking in the same direction’) jumped at having some actual information to process, and worked in double-time to make sure that what was on the screen was translated to indisputable fact in the Doctor’s head.

“No way…” she whispered, then turned on her heel, practically running over to the doors and throwing them open.

Outside there was no longer a rift and the dim lights from the nearest galaxy. There was no majestic, endless space-time where the Doctor’s mind could always see all that was, all that is, all that ever could be. Nor was there the customary flotsam and jetsam of space: say a Sontaran wreck, the odd asteroid, and a random boot, accidentally ejected.

Oh no.

Outside the TARDIS doors was something entirely new:

A perfect little pocket universe, as cosy and homely as a cottage in the South Downs, with nothing but a primordial soup containing a cornucopia of eclectic components that with the tiniest bit of help could become its own world, full of living, happy, unique creatures…

And God looked upon Her creation, grinned a wide and goofy grin, and said: “Oh, _brilliant_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what the clockwork squirrel looks like:
> 
> And [this](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/elisi/4713981/529800/529800_original.jpg) is why the Doctor has a clockwork squirrel in the first place. (Image from Tumblr, if anyone has a link to the actual post I’d be grateful.)
> 
> Next chapter might take a little longer, but it's with my betas. <3


	3. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _DOCTOR: Well, there's a rift. Now and then stuff gets sucked through it. Not a bubble, a plughole. The universe has a plughole and we've just fallen down it._  
>  The Doctor’s Wife (S6.04)
> 
> _MARGARET: I almost feel better about being defeated. I never stood a chance. This is the technology of the gods._  
>  _DOCTOR: Don't worship me - I'd make a very bad god. You wouldn't get a day off, for starters._   
> Boom Town (S1.11)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaven! Angels! And the Doctor trying to come to terms with being God… Plus a _ton_ of world building. Can I get a wahoo?

What had happened was this: The TARDIS, upon realising that her insides were about to explode (yet again! And with no friendly re-set button this time), did the only thing she could think of — she threw everything important in one direction and the explosion in the opposite direction. The opposite direction being the spacetime rift.

When the dust settled (at about the point when the Doctor unsteadily began getting to her feet), the combination of The Eye of Harmony; Missy’s collection of gunpowder, dynamite, TNT and gelignite; a wide selection of DNA; plus the truly multifarious assortment of random junk (topped off with time vortex energy from the TARDIS) had created a whole new universe brimming with impossible possibility.

The TARDIS took stock and was pleased. She had spent a lot of time exploding, all told, and had once even rebooted the (original) universe — but creating a whole new one was something different. 

_‘I always take you where you need to go,’_ she thought in the Doctor’s general direction. _‘Look, an entirely new place for you to help get going and then run around in!’_

If there were lists titled _‘What To Get the Time Lord Who Has Everything’_ then — going by the Doctor’s expression — it would seem that ‘A brand new universe’ would be at the top of that list.

~o~

The new little universe (‘little’ being relative, of course) had been created in such hap-hazard and accidental circumstances that nothing worked quite like it normally would. There was _life_ , but no stars or planets to sustain the life as it developed, besides which the DNA was in such a muddle (as well as being infused with a good dollop of TARDIS energy) that it was unclear what exactly it would turn out to _be_. It seemed to be mostly ethereal and terribly confused, as well as quite, _quite_ unique.

Above all, the Doctor most definitely couldn’t abandon it. She had very strong feelings on this point. How large a portion of those feelings was simple curiosity and how much was an unexpected sort of responsibility can be left up to the reader to decide. Mostly the urge to poke things with a stick were overwhelming, and it was an urge the Doctor had never in her 2000+ years of life bothered to curb.

Her first course of action was to do her best to scoop all of _The New Life_ out of the nothingness of space (there might be Somethingness at some point, but for now it was all solitary bits of _stuff_ ) and pop it in a container in the TARDIS. It was a fascinating primordial soup that she was keen to study further, except when she went to look for any tools that might have escaped the explosion she ended up in a bathroom. The next five rooms were also bathrooms. She began to suspect that the TARDIS was trying to tell her something. 

And she supposed she _could_ spare five minutes to get clean. And if we go by the old saying that cleanliness is next to godliness, then the TARDIS had a point.

So she threw her charred clothes down a laundry chute, had a wonderful shower that left her smelling like sandalwood and vanilla (which mostly covered the Burned Black Hole odour), wrapped a quite astonishingly ugly beach towel around herself and opened the next door, expecting to see the wardrobe. 

Instead she found herself in the broom cupboard. The next room turned out to be Peri’s (which _did_ contain clothes, but there were limits to what the Doctor was willing to wear) and she sighed deeply and tried the next door along again. And again. And again.

This went on for some time — she even discovered a small ferris wheel, which surely hadn’t existed before? — but no wardrobe. Clearly the internal room swapping and mixing up had been even more extensive than she had realised, and she began to worry in earnest that somehow the wardrobe had been jettisoned by the TARDIS when attempting to contain the blast. At any rate she couldn’t find it.

(A long time later she would discover that the TARDIS had thrown the entire contents of the wardrobe into the swimming pool, which led to A Stern Talk. The TARDIS merely did an eleventh-dimensional-matrix-folded-into-a-mechanical equivalent of a shrug. The Doctor resigned herself to all of her woollens being permanently shrunk several sizes and hoped she’d regenerate a lot shorter next time.)

But at this moment in time she needed clothing of some kind. Not that she was particularly bothered about being naked, but clothes were a nice invention and she was beginning to get rather cold in the damp towel. And she had _The New Life_ to investigate! She didn’t have _time_ to run around looking for basic necessities.

Eventually she discovered a long-forgotten tallboy with several official Gallifreyan robes. Sighing as she took in the pompous Prydonian red and gold, she figured that it was better than (quite literally) nothing. As she swept dramatically along the corridors a little later she admitted to herself that robes _did_ have their good points. As long as one stayed clear of the stupid collars, obviously.

Whilst clothes hunting she had let the unoccupied parts of her brain run through a few million different possibilities for how to go forward with _The New Life_ , and, discarding most of them as unworkable, she had come to a decision. It wasn’t ideal, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and most importantly it’d _work_. 

In her mind she cancelled the lengthy rant she had prepared for Missy, and instead started composing a ‘Well, I know you created this for an evil purpose, but it came in really handy this one time’ talk instead.

And since this particular item was locked up in the safest place on board, it even proved easy to find.

Even so, she stood for a long moment just looking at it, willing herself to move. A bit how you might eye up a scorpion that you _know_ has had its sting removed, but you still feel rather apprehensive before picking it up.

But then she firmly pushed the painful memories out of her mind and stepped forwards, reaching a hand upwards to where the Nethersphere hung in the air; a dark glittering globe of opportunity.

~o~

_Gabriel was the first angel to be named. He was the most pompous-looking creature the Doctor had seen in a long, long time, except (unlike the usual douchebags she came across) he had **lilac** eyes and the biggest grin in the whole universe. He also had the most brilliant way of saying ‘Yes, Lord’ — firm and decisive and so completely dedicated that she was quite sure he’d walk straight into a wall if she asked him to. Not terribly imaginative, truth be told, but incredibly solid and dependable, and she needed someone like that. And thus, without ever really making it official, he became her automatic right-hand-man. _

~o~

After that, time became a sort of blur. Once, many many years later, Adam Young (Previous Antichrist and now fairly normal 11 year old) would ask her if she’d really created the world in only six days.

Just the memory of those early days was enough to nearly make her utter a whole string of words neither fitting for an 11 year old (nevermind who his biological father was or what realm that father presided over) nor of a kind that God was supposed to use.

She confined herself to pulling a face and saying that it had taken a _lot_ longer than that, and hadn’t been quite as simple as just saying a word.

Besides the Bible only really dealt with Earth, and this was way before Earth was even a twinkle in her eye. In those early days it was only her, although the TARDIS helped by making sure the kitchen showed up on a regular basis next to where she was working, since even God needs to eat.

~o~

_Michael was possibly the cleverest angel of them all. She reminded the Doctor a bit of herself, could see a flash of **Warrior** in Michael’s eyes, which was… **unsettling** , except the Doctor firmly refused to dwell on any of that. War didn’t exist here, and never would, so the Doctor decided to instead make use of Michael’s superb organisational skills. With millions of angels to coordinate, the Doctor needed to delegate. And it was more than worth it to see Michael flourish — she had an innate gift for keeping track of a hundred different things simultaneously, and if she didn’t need the Doctor’s approval quite as much as the others, that was probably for the best. Competence was its own reward, and the Doctor didn’t begrudge Michael her achievements._

~o~

The Doctor’s instincts turned out to have been on point: a matrix data-slice was just the ticket. The Doctor had long since freed all the poor souls Missy had originally trapped in it, so it was all empty and had room for millions of people what with being bigger on the inside. Besides which relative dimensions were a doddle if she needed to expand further. The top floor with its endless white-on-white was a little much, but she could always add some colour later. Or maybe _The New Life_ would do that? She almost clapped in excitement.

Plus a Gallifreyan hard drive naturally had an abundance of Time Lord technology, all of it at her fingertips and ready to be put to good use.

She didn’t know what _The New Life_ would turn out to be, and (although she was all for evolution and things finding their own path) she figured she could at least try to make sure it didn’t turn out to be made of snot or composed entirely out of ears or — worse — resemble Piers Morgan.

As it happened, she needn’t have worried. The New Life surprised her beyond all expectations and all hope.

When she first realised what it was becoming, her jaw dropped and she threw her hand over her mouth.

“I — don’t — _believe_ — it…” she said, in an unconscious imitation of Victor Meldrew. “They’re bloody angels!”

And they were.

About twenty million of them, in the end. Time Lord-y in shape (not surprising, given their origin) and all kinds of different shapes and colours, with huge white fluffy wings.

We might imagine that the Doctor jumped up and down for joy at this point in time, but the TARDIS has hidden those records so well that they are no longer accessible.

~o~

_Uriel… Maybe it was because she **looked** younger than the others, despite them all being exactly the same age, more or less. Maybe it was the way she grasped new concepts quickly and with minimal explanations. Maybe it was the way she (more than any of them) seemed to have a fine-tuned sense of right and wrong. Whatever the case Uriel felt like a Companion. Curious, admiring, **moral**. There was a sense of righteousness to her that the Doctor treasured, especially in this new world where she was still trying to work out what she was actually doing — in Uriel’s mind there were clearly no difficult shades of grey, and the Doctor loved nothing more than sending her a look when discussing a new plan or initiative, and receiving a quiet, supportive smile in return. Yes, if she could have taken any of them travelling, it would have been Uriel._

~o~

Like a literal gift that kept giving, the Doctor discovered that her angels were _fantastically_ keyed into the universe they had been born into. They could change their physical environment with only a flick of the wrist, and bring things into being from nothing. Well, not _literally_ nothing, there was an exchange of energy, but they managed it so perfectly that for all intents and purposes it could probably be called miraculous. Whether this was because of TARDIS energy or their unorthodox origin — or a combination of both — was anyone’s guess.

It felt like Christmas, except instead of her usual Christmases (where spaceships threatened to blow up the Earth or cyber-armies stomped around killing people), she had actual _angels_ pulling things out of thin air. 

That talent came in especially handy when it came to clothing. The angels’ bodies were sexless, but it was a _little_ weird being the only clothed person amongst millions of naked beings, so she explained about clothes (using her own robe as an example) and they all conjured up robes of their own (white, of course, they really weren’t terribly imaginative as a species), and she even got them to add little golden flourishes. 

Some of them decided that they liked the decorations so much that they also added some to their _faces_ , which was lovely, but none of them seemed to be able to take that idea a step further and do something with the bland surroundings. On the other hand the Doctor wasn’t sure she wanted Heaven to be a place full of golden stencilling, so she put the subject on the back burner.

Names couldn’t really be magicked up, so she created a big angel-name-generator — since personally naming them all would take forever — but, as she organised them into different ‘choirs’ (there was a terribly helpful wikipedia article with all the different angel categories), she pulled a chosen few aside for special duties, and named them herself. Her Archangels. Four of them, with proper, traditional Archangel names: Gabriel, Michael, Uriel and ~~Raphael~~ Lucifer (Lucifer was a whole story on his own). A good mix of personalities and skills, eager and willing to help organise everything and everyone, and _finally_ life began to get a little easier. She might even consider a nap.

~o~

_Lucifer was the most gifted. With his golden curls and blue eyes he looked like an old-fashioned illustration of a ‘traditional angel’, but it was his imagination and dedication that made him stand out. He was more keyed into the universe than any of the others, able to mould reality in ways that made the Doctor almost speechless; the universe kept surprising her, and Lucifer was one of the key components of that. His concern for others was his driving force, and he was always thinking of new things, or ways to improve what was there._

_Unbeknownst to anyone else, Lucifer’s **name** was a minor headache. She’d been ready to name him Raphael (the fourth of the traditional Archangels, the Healer), except he had (of course) been intrigued by the name generator. Belatedly she’d realised that not putting any restrictions on the thing had been a mistake, as he had studied her, eyes dancing in excitement: _

_‘Lord — I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I saw a name that is quite simply more beautiful than any of the others… Could I be ‘Lucifer Morningstar’?’_

_Since he didn’t know the connotations, she couldn’t explain why it was bad — and besides, who was she to begrudge someone choosing their own name? (Thankfully he didn’t object when she decided that his nickname was ‘Lucy’.) The name fitted him though — he was her morning star; bright and wonderful and dazzling. Imaginative too. ‘Why don’t we…’ he’d ask, with a **look** from under his eyelashes, flaxen ringlets falling over his shoulders — like a one-angel advert, sweet and inviting. Always ‘we’. Always that tiny hint of flirting. Always too charming for his own good. She found it nigh-on impossible to say no to him._

~o~

“What do we call _you_?” Uriel had asked (quite rightly), newly named and eyes wide and curious. “You are our Creator, our God, do _you_ have a name?”

The ‘God’ designation tripped her up. She wasn’t THE God (if there _was_ a God, which was a whole other question), but technically she supposed she was _their_ god, as in ‘the person who created them’ — well she and the TARDIS, except they didn’t know about the TARDIS — but what did that even _mean_ , and she didn’t want anyone to start _worshipping_ her… 

Her brain having stumbled through this and found no solution, she was about to just say ‘Doctor’ when she realised that the name would be nonsense here. In this place there was no illness, no badness of any kind, nothing to improve or make better. They were _angels_ ; loving, kind, delightful, perfect. And with no need of a Doctor, ever.

“My name is… _ineffable_ *,” she replied, clutching at straws. “That means… that it’s, um, beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words.”

She cleared her throat and smiled the biggest smile she could, in order to take the edge off having momentarily become a thesaurus.

“So, just call me…” 

_(What am I? A Time Lord. Bit awkward to explain though… ‘Lord’, that will do, right? Bit pompous, but I can’t just tell them ‘Fred’ or ‘Bob’ or ‘John Smith’…)_

“Call me ‘Lord’.”

“As you wish Lord,” Uriel smiled, and she saw Gabriel mouthing ‘Lord’ to himself, as if testing it to make sure how to say it as grandiosely as possible.

It wasn’t ideal, but at least it was sort of accurate? She tried not to pull a face when they addressed her and figured it’d do for now.

~o~

_Sandalphon was, by any measure you cared to use, a most unfortunate angel: A victim of not just the name generator, but also the random body shapes. He looked uncannily like a secondhand car salesman, and the Doctor kept expecting him to try to sell her double glazing. She would probably never have noticed him if he hadn’t attached himself to Gabriel like a limpet, turning himself into the all-important right-hand-man of **The** right-hand-man. His utter lack of self-awareness was stupidly endearing, and he never failed to make her laugh — the fact that he never understood **why** somehow made it even funnier. But he never minded her laughing; as long as he pleased her, he was happy. She’d pat his bald head and tell him he could have been the middle manager of a paper merchant in Slough, and he took it as the best compliment she’d ever paid him. _

~o~

Being God didn’t come with a manual. The Doctor — who was, despite appearances, very old and sometimes even wise — did her best to be organised and think ahead. But she had to admit that it was 50-50 at best, and her ability to think on her feet was tested to the limit.

One day, as she surveyed the bustle of activity all round, the throng of happy angels — bright-eyed, curious, eager, innocent (but neither stupid or naive), and inherently cheerful — she sighed contentedly and said: 

“This is heaven.” 

She was speaking to herself, but Gabriel (never far from her side, and with an incredible ability to just _Pop Up Beside Her Without Warning_ ) appeared next to her and asked:

“Heaven? What a marvellous word. Is that what this place is called, Lord?”

She smiled to herself, hearts too full to explain further, and replied: “Yes. This is Heaven.”

It was deeply ironic, considering the Nethersphere’s original purpose, but she didn’t care. The name was uniquely fitting.

~o~

_But her **favourite** … Her favourite wasn’t an Archangel. Her favourite was someone who caught her eye by chance one day when walking through the workshops where the astrophysically gifted were working on new star systems. For a second she had that feeling of glimpsing herself in a mirror out of the corner of her eye — but when she turned it was a face several faces back. The likeness **uncanny** , apart from the red ringlets falling around his face; a deep burned carmine, the colour of a rowan tree in autumn. (She was jealous of the hair, oh yes.) He was… smart, excitable, innovative and irreverent. She could hear the other angels’ sharp intake of breath when he’d say something cheeky, but she could see straight through him — the way he couldn’t help dancing on the edge of the risqué, even as his eyes begged for her approval. Understood that he joked because the things he felt were too deep to voice. So she laughed, and crammed every ounce of love she had into every look she sent him. **You are mine, and never doubt it.** She called him ‘Red’ and talked shop, and he was the only one who never got tired of her long technical explanations, instead extrapolating new questions and ideas, and she was **thrilled**. His questions were complex, spinning out from astrophysics to anything that popped into his head, and with nothing of Lucifer’s smoothness or focus… No, Red’s questions came from a mind so busy she half expected him to invent several branches of philosophy and experimental science single-handedly. _

_She had him build a planet called Gallifrey. Her own little joke._

~o~

The wings were probably the Doctor’s favourite aspect of the angels. Big fluffy white wings (she figured that was probably down to the stuffed swan; she wasn’t quite sure how that would work, but neither did she care) — but, even better, the wings were somewhat dimensionally transcendent, so the angels could shift them out of the current plane of existence if they wanted.

This was only discovered by accident one day after she’d gotten a face full of wing that had nearly knocked her over, and the newly minted angel had been so mortified that their wings had immediately disappeared.

Lucifer (by her side, as usual) had steadied her so she didn’t fall, but then turned his attention to the angel who looked like they were ready to sink through the floor. 

“Hey — no worries, it’s _fine_. The Almighty is fine, she’s quite sturdy, see? Go on, give us a smile?”

The angel did a wobbly smile, and Lucy beamed back. He was _such_ a people person, the caring heart of her Archangels. Endlessly patient, endlessly kind. (Almost too good to be true. But then, that went for all for them.)

“That’s better,” he said, then tilted his head. “Just one question… what happened to your wings?”

The angel’s eyes went wide as they tried to turn and look behind them — where indeed, they were as wingless as the Doctor — before (with a whoosh that almost knocked the Doctor over again) the wings reappeared, flapping.

“Oh _wow_ ,” the Doctor breathed. “How did you do that?”

The angel made a squeaky noise, and looked like they were about to make _themselves_ vanish. They were quite short, and with a mass of brown curls that seemed to bounce with sheer nerves and big, soft brown eyes that were now blinking far too rapidly. “I — I don’t know…”

“Shhhh,” Lucifer soothed again, gently laying a hand on their arm, and smiling warmly and comfortingly. “It’s _fine_ , I told you. Why don’t we both try to do it together, at the same time? I think you might have discovered something completely new…”

The little angel nodded, eyes fixed on Lucifer, and — to the Doctor’s profound joy — between them they discovered that their wings could be ‘tucked away’ with only a thought.

For a few days the whole of Heaven was full of angels trying out this new trick, _fwooshing_ sounds echoing around the whiteness and the air full of feathers.

And then they had to invent grooming in order to tidy themselves up again.

The Doctor loved them so much she thought her hearts might burst.

~o~

“Lord,” Michael asked one day. “What is our _purpose_?”

Philosophy had not been on the Doctor’s itinerary for the day, but it turned out that Michael was simply wanting to put all the angels to good use. 

“How do you feel about playing the harp?” the Doctor had asked but was met with blank stares, and since the Doctor didn’t feel like inventing harps, she cast around for something for the angels to _do_.

Looking out of the big windows, it occurred to her that maybe she could do something about the darkness… The universe was still pretty empty, and it seemed stupid to wait a few million years for the normal progression of events (presuming this universe would even adhere to normal procedures), especially since she had a Universe Starting Pack ready & waiting, complete with millions of eager workers.

So she explained about stars and planets and nebulae and black holes, and once they got their heads around the basic science they got _busy_.

The Doctor didn’t think she had ever been this happy.

It was still a very basic set-up, but it worked. She had a nice office (the clockwork squirrel — which had miraculously escaped unharmed — on her desk along with random paperwork), a meeting room for her and the Archangels (and anyone else who might be needed), a big hall that all the angels could cram into (they could change size, which helped), and countless workshops with happily occupied angels. In short she was beginning to think that everything was falling into place.

She was even considering going on a little holiday: see her friends, do some running and maybe save a planet or two… She was, she had to admit, missing danger and near death situations. Heaven was lovely, like infinite cups of tea and back rubs, but restlessness was beginning to take root.

~o~

The Doctor was wrong, of course.

She wouldn’t be getting a nice holiday, since Heaven was about to test its God in ways she should maybe (possibly, probably?) have anticipated. 

But she’d never been religious, and she wasn’t much better at being worshipped than being a worshipper; a fact that would cost her dearly. 

Although not as dearly as the ten million angels who fell…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *God’s name is _literally_ ineffable:
> 
> ‘This divine name is mysterious just as God is a mystery. It is at once a name revealed and something like the refusal of a name, and hence it better expressed God as what he is — infinitely above everything that we can understand or say: he is the ‘hidden God’, his name is ineffable, and he is the God who makes himself close to men.’  
>  _Catechism of the Catholic Church, article 206_
> 
> And a visual comparison:  
>  [The Nethersphere](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/elisi/4713981/530274/530274_600.jpg)
> 
> [Good Omens Heaven](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/elisi/4713981/530662/530662_600.jpg)
> 
> QED


	4. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How you have fallen from heaven,  
>  O morning star, son of the dawn!  
> You have been cut down to the ground,  
> O destroyer of nations.  
> You said in your heart:  
> “I will ascend to the heavens;  
> I will raise my throne  
> above the stars of God.  
> I will sit on the mount of assembly,  
> in the far reaches of the north.  
> I will ascend above the tops of the clouds;  
> I will make myself like the Most High.”  
> But you will be brought down to Sheol,  
> to the lowest depths of the Pit. _  
> Isaiah 14, 12-15
> 
>  _How come ~~the ancient society of Time Lords~~ Heaven created a psychopath? _  
> Adapted from The Sound of Drums (S3.12)
> 
>  _DOCTOR: Go to hell._  
>  Dark Water (S8.11)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s _Lonely God_ all the way down.
> 
> (Or: Doctor Angst a speciality.)

God walked into Her office, almost unthinkingly flipping the sign on the handle that said ‘Do Not Disturb’ before closing the door behind Her. (The angels couldn’t read, but they intuitively understood written messages.)

She didn’t sit down at her desk, didn’t even hit the clockwork squirrel around the head, merely walked straight into the TARDIS which sat in a corner, invisibility turned up to eleven — no one else had the faintest idea it was even there. 

God looked ashen and drawn and shattered, the red robe draining the colour from Her already pale face. 

It wasn’t what you expected a God to look like. Gods are supposed to be all-knowing and powerful and self-assured, not radiating _‘Well, **that** was a fuck-up on a colossal scale!’_

Looking around the control room, She tried to work out where River’s secret stash of Aldebaran brandy might have been relocated to. The TARDIS understood without words, and the relevant roundel popped open before She even had to ask. 

She sank down, back against the console, and — hand shaking — poured a whole glass full, then downed it in one.

_‘Never cruel or cowardly…’_

But She wasn’t the Doctor here. No, She was The Lord God Almighty, and today She had unleashed Her Righteous Wrath and Thrown Down Her Enemies. 

_‘Hi there self-loathing, nice to see you again,’_ She thought. _‘Been a while, but you’re like a boomerang, whacking me round the back of the head every time I forget.’_

~o~

It had started with a simple argument. For the first time she had told Lucifer ‘No’ and he’d not taken it well.

She’d decided that she needed a break, something more than just a quick nap in the TARDIS. (If there was running around and dodging bullets all the better, but any sort of break would be nice.) 

There was also the (more important) fact that she couldn’t babysit the angels forever, and had to extricate herself _somehow_. Doing it in stages seemed the best way forward. Of course she had _created_ them, so she felt uncomfortably responsible (like rescuing an abandoned puppy on the side of the road, but then realising that keeping a St Bernard in a one bedroom apartment on the 15th floor is not in fact a great idea), but she had made a conscious effort this regeneration to step away from taking charge. Arranging the angels into choirs, as per human convention, had seemed a nice shortcut initially, except now she was stuck with a _hierarchy_ , and they all just… accepted it. 

So she had floated the thought of having some time off in the latest meeting, and the Archangels had been terribly supportive. Uriel had said that of _course_ she needed a break, she had been working for them ceaselessly. Michael smiled demurely and said she was _sure_ they could manage, although she (Michael) might need more angels on her team… Gabriel had told her not to worry, they would look after things, no problem! (You could always hear the exclamation points when Gabriel spoke.) Lucifer had nodded along but not said anything, which was unusual. 

Except after the meeting he had pulled her aside.

“Lord, I hope you won’t think me impertinent, but are you sure about this whole ‘committee’ idea? What if there’s a problem? They are used to you making all the decisions, for someone to have the final say. So, I was thinking…” 

A brief hesitation, followed by that practised smoothness; a soft, tantalising smile to take the edge off the suggestion: 

“You could leave _me_ in charge? You are always saying how I anticipate most of your thoughts, so… doesn’t it just make sense? No one would question your wisdom, they know how important I am, how much I care.”

She had stared at him wordlessly, hearts suddenly beating too rapidly. 

_(I’m too nice. This is what happens when you try to be nice.)_

What had she done? She _knew_ this. Knew _exactly_ what this was. How had she been so blind? 

“Lucy…” Her smile felt forced, for the first time. “That’s a _very_ nice thought, but I don’t actually like the top-down hierarchy, and am hoping to devolve it into something more… Greek.”

(She quite forgot that he wouldn’t understand her reference, but inside she was blindly panicking.)

“I don’t understand,” he replied, “What is ‘Greek’?”

“I mean — leadership should be _shared_. Everyone having a say.”

There was a pause as he seemed to turn this over in his head, and she knew that he would be probing this new idea from every angle.

“But you _chose_ us,” he eventually replied. “We are your Archangels. Will you be… choosing _others_? Will _Sandalphon_ be the next one in line to have a say and make decisions?”

“That’s not…” she began, then faltered.

This was bad. This was very very bad. (Deep breath. He’s smart, he’ll see what you mean, he just wants to _help_. Right?)

“Look, it’s a whole new concept. I’ll be introducing it slowly, and _your_ help will be invaluable.”

She saw how the words made things shift in his mind, and she smiled to enforce the positive.

“New?” he echoed, and she nodded.

“It’s… sort of a secret, so keep it quiet, yes?”

A pause, and then he had nodded. (Somehow the smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes, and there was a wariness to his reply that she felt down to her toes. He might think he was fooling her, but she was very old and knew every shade of deception.) 

“Of course. You can trust me, Lord.”

She swallowed against the beating of her hearts, and tried her best to keep the smile on her face. 

The outcome was that instead of ‘going on holiday’ she took a little ‘time out’ (literally) and cobbled together a basic, but functional, AI interface that would be able to deal with problem shooting whenever she wasn’t around. 

Because yes, Lucy was _smart_ and had put his finger on the weakest part immediately — they were used to someone with the final say. 

Since she didn’t particularly want to use her own face for it, she cycled through all the faces the TARDIS had stored, to her surprise realising that it had saved the Master’s ‘Professor Yana’ aspect. _Perfect_ , she thought to herself. Older, fatherly, and with just the right amount of friendly authority. 

(She named it the Metatron, but to her dismay quickly discovered that the angels all referred to it as ‘The Voice of God’. The Master would have had a _field_ day…)

~o~

The TARDIS was comforting in its golden hues, but she barely noticed.

Was it _her_? Was she doomed to destroy everything she touched? _She_ had created the angels, had she been the one to — by her nature — cause half of them to rebel, to fall? How had she misjudged so badly when it came to Lucifer? Was she just a sucker for flattery? How had someone come from pure love and become… _that_?

Because she _loved_ them. Loved them still, two hearts so full of love that she felt it was choking her. She’d read her Milton, but this was different; wasn’t it? 

Wasn’t it?

Her mind restless, it roved over the past, unable to settle.

~o~

The Metatron had been a great success. The angels found it fascinating (Gabriel accepted it without hesitation, Michael wanted to make sure it wouldn’t interfere with her work — and, thus reassured, smoothly used it when she needed back-up — and Uriel was curious as to why it had a different face, which made the Doctor waffle about having many aspects). Lucifer complimented her, but also spent a long time talking to the Metatron — he claimed curiosity, but the Doctor suspected him of looking for weak points.

Unfortunately she still wasn’t sure how to devolve power. Sitting down and working out how to create a fair society was the kind of thing she invariably delegated (or, if she was honest, ran away from). Not really her forte, all told.

The only angel who grasped the issue properly — because he _did_ listen, and he had the imagination to understand what she was talking about — had already seen a different side to it. She could see Lucifer turn it all over in his mind, and, if it hadn’t been for their conversation, she would happily have handed the whole project over to him; he had the skills and the vision to grasp the sort of democracy she wanted to introduce. 

Except… he didn’t like it.

For a long time he never said anything outright, but his silence and lack of engagement with her plans was telling. The other angels didn’t suspect a thing, of course, but the Doctor was beginning to quietly panic. 

How could she fix this? She _had_ to fix this. 

Being President of Earth and trying to foil Missy had been child’s play in comparison. (Could you miss your arch-nemesis? Yes, yes you could.)

She half-wondered if she could take Lucifer aside for a private little lesson on ‘So, here’s the story of my best friend/enemy…’ 

Except she didn’t want to give him ideas; he was far too clever not to run with them. And she was beginning to suspect that running with ideas and taking them too far was Lucifer’s game.

It had come to a head one day when he’d stayed behind after a meeting, supposedly asking a few follow-up questions about her plans. She had been expecting a confrontation and tried her best to be friendly and open. 

Leaning back in his seat, a small smirk on his face (and damn, despite the wings and the cherubic curls and the bright blue of his eyes, he was beginning to remind her of the Master), he spoke, the words so off-hand that it took a second for them to sink in:

“Lord… Apologies, but I was wondering — what with your plans and all … when will it be _your_ turn to be ruled by _us_?”

She almost gasped.

“That’s not — I am your _creator_. I am not of your world. I’m only going to hand over the leadership.”

He met her eyes head-on, and the blue in them was suddenly as cold as a frozen star.

“But not to _me_.”

She slowly shook her head. She had spoiled him initially, and this was the result. She didn’t know if he could still be salvaged, but she had to draw a line. She kept her voice as gentle as she could as she delivered the blow:

"No Lucifer. Not to you."

For a long moment they merely stared at each other, then he sneered ( _sneered_! The first sneer in Heaven!) and then threw down his ultimatum:

“If you will not give it to me… I will _take_ it!”

It took her a few moments to wrap her mind around what he was saying.

“Are you… _challenging_ me?” she asked, gobsmacked, and he lifted his chin.

“Yes.”

In hindsight, bursting out laughing had _not_ been the best response.

“Lucy — you were _literally born yesterday_ , you think you can take _me_ on?”

“Just you wait,” he said, and stormed off, in a whirl of white robes and aggravated wings. He had the dramatics down to a T, she’d give him that.

Resting her chin on her hands she had stared into the distance, lost. 

What she wouldn’t have given for a Dalek at that moment.

~o~

After that, things had gone downhill rapidly. The dissent had spread, rebellion and defiance disseminating, and in no time at all the whole place had become a metaphorical powder keg. The Doctor thought of the actual powder keg that had gone into this world’s creation, and could almost hear Missy cackling.

The worst thing was that she knew she’d win. She barely had to think about it; the sense memory of warfare embedded so deep it could be called to the surface in the blink of an eye. It was _easy_.

Lucifer was smart, innovative and full of righteous mutiny, but he wasn’t a veteran (‘the _Winner’_ the Time Lord Victorious whispered to her) of the greatest war ever fought. 

Michael — as suspected — was a natural. When open war was declared, the Doctor only had to sketch in her plans before Michael grasped them. She smiled coolly, and the Doctor knew she’d always remember Michael the way she had led the troops — brand new armour gleaming and flaming sword held aloft. 

“For God’s glory, strike down the rebels!”

No, the question wasn’t how to win, that part was a given. The question was what to do with the losers. She needed to punish them, to teach them a lesson… But _how_?

~o~

Before the battle, addressing her troops. (How many times had she done this? Except this was different, the bitterness choking.) But she knew what to say and how to say it and how to make them fight for her. Even so, at the end she felt compelled to add:

“Don’t…” 

(Don’t _what_ , her mind filled in. ‘Don’t _kill_ them?’ Do they even know what killing _is_? Can they _be_ killed?)

“Don’t _discorporate_ them. If they are… without bodies, we won’t be able to contain them…”

Gabriel — who looked like the epitome of a stalwart Disney prince, minus the white steed — nodded admiringly, in that way that she knew meant ‘God is so damn _smart_ , I’d totally walk into a wall for Her.’

~o~

She stared into her glass.

If ever Missy found out… She swallowed against the bile. Ten million angels, _Fallen_. 

She had never expected it to be so many.

When she had first tried to figure out what to do with Lucifer once she’d defeated him, she had run smack bang into the fact that — since she wanted to avoid any killing — containment was her only other option. And here there was no Stormcage, no Shadow Proclamation, no resources whatsoever except what she created herself.

As if of their own accord her thoughts had turned to Missy, waxing lyrical about her Matrix data slice:

_‘Imagine you could upload dying minds to that. Edit them. Rearrange them. Get rid of all those boring emotions. Ready to be re-downloaded. Meanwhile, you upgrade the bodies.’_

The Nethersphere had been adapted to create cybermen, but both software and hardware were very flexible. And the angels’ biomedical imprint went down to molecular level. 

It hadn’t been an avenue she particularly wanted to explore, but her options were painfully limited…

The pool of molten sulphur that she found in the basement of the Nethersphere had almost been too serendipitous, but a) she had learned to be grateful for small mercies and b) she never put anything past Missy, who clearly had yet to meet a cliché she disliked.

The Doctor had stood in the eerie blue light of the sulphur _(‘No light, but rather darkness visible’)_ and the plan had fallen into place without any conscious effort; Milton’s poetry whispering to her, the verses like daisy chains in her mind, line after line continuing onwards and onwards… 

_Him the Almighty Power  
Hurled headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skye  
With hideous ruin and combustion down  
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell  
In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire,  
Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to Arms._

And she’d seen it all in perfect detail, the possible future laid out so clearly she had to shake her head to stop the vision.

It wasn’t just possible, it would _work._

Let Lucifer (and whatever followers he managed to drag with him) stew for a while, allow them to reflect and realise how there wasn’t anywhere else to go, whilst she got Heaven sorted, and could then present them with the choice between the basement and Happy Democracy.

(Even Missy had come round in the end, more or less. _Yes_ , she could win them over, they just needed containing for a while. Her mind easily slid past the word ‘punishment’ instead searching for ‘salvation’ and ‘redemption’. Surely the end justified the means.)

Some complex programming later (failsafes to make sure they couldn’t miracle the changes away), and the angels only had to push the rebels off the newly created ledge and let them literally _fall_ … The programming took care of the rest. Once they had all been thrown down to ‘the basement’ (the word ‘Hell’ had not yet been invented), the new biometric imprints and characteristics — as determined by a neat little algorithm — were locked in. 

Except she had never thought that _so many_ would join Lucifer. _Falling_ was to have been something she used to set an example, to warn and punish the handful of rebels she had been expecting to deal with. Not… _millions_. Not _half_ of her angels.

Lucifer standing there, tall and proud and unbowed in the face of God’s punishment.

“You see? You see how She treats us? _This_ is what Her love is!”

Somehow that had been the last straw. How _dare_ he? He understood _nothing_ of love.

She had stepped up, letting her anger shine through — just a moment, but _dammit_ , the damage this _one_ angel had caused was so catastrophic she still couldn’t process it — and coldly declared:

“Go to hell.”

And with a single push initiated The Fall. 

(God’s retribution, turning angels into demons. How very Biblical. And the rebels screaming defiance, leaving her with no choice but to punish them all…)

 _‘Gloria in excelsis Deo’_ , she whispered to herself.

Hand shaking, she brought up the glass for another drink to burn through her.

~o~

Lucifer hadn’t been the worst though. She could kick herself from now and unto eternity for letting him become what he had turned into, but she could take it on the chin. She was a big girl and she could own up to her mistakes. But she had looked out over the rebels and seen _him_. Her Red. Her _favourite_. He’d looked lost and confused and she’d been sure it had only been a misunderstanding. Not _him_. Never _him_. Leaving the Archangels to dispense justice, she slipped on a perception filter and managed to pull him aside.

A quiet word in private, that’d sort it.

~o~

She felt tears sting. Remembered breaking Amy’s faith in her, to save her Impossible Girl’s life. But _this_ …

The moment seemed stuck on auto-repeat in her mind: She had _seen_ his faith break, and it had felt like her legs had been kicked out from under her. She’d only wanted to _explain_ , to at least have a single conversation that wasn’t full of either deference or defiance. 

It hadn’t worked out like that. How had it gone so wrong? Why hadn’t he understood?

_(Secrets **protect** us. Secrets make us **safe**.)_

He had kept asking questions (it was what he _did_ , what she had _encouraged_ ) and she had let slip her biggest secret. And from that moment her hands had been tied. She couldn’t — _couldn’t_ — allow him to tell anyone else. Not now. A swift memory wipe later, and he too had been thrown down. Just another fallen rebel, nothing at all to distinguish him.

(It was a terrible thing to see your own face looking back at you with nothing but rejection and scorn and disdain. Accurate though. If any of her past selves could see her now…)

~o~

She looked at the bottle and rued how little alcohol there was left. Knowing that any of her angels could refill it with a snap of their fingers didn’t make her feel any better.

She’d created Heaven and Hell had followed. 

She poured the last of the brandy, pondering how she needed _something_. A distraction. Something for the angels to focus on, other than just filling the universe with ever more stars. She had been wilfully blind so far, but that was over. 

Because it was unfortunately _abundantly_ clear that if she didn’t find a new purpose they’d just keep fighting. Michael had been far too happy with a sword for the Doctor to ever rest easy again. Not to mention Sandalphon’s glee at hurling the rebels down to Hell… 

Really, who was to say who the bad guys were? 

(OK, it was Lucifer, she knew a megalomaniac when she saw one. Too late, alas, but there was nothing to do about that now. But the rest… The rest probably just wanted more of a say — which she had been planning to do _anyway_ , but Lucifer (knowing it, the bastard) had deliberately undermined her plans.)

The bottle was empty now, and she let her head rest on her knees. What now? Where did she go from here? She couldn’t run away, not this time. Not this place. Not these creatures. 

She had sometimes wondered if there was an actual God, and if so why they didn’t show themself. She was getting a crash course in why not. Being God was no fun at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank yous to everyone reading and leaving kudos and comments etc. ♥ I love you all, and am thrilled to be sharing this with you. Hope you liked this rather gloomy installment... (I mean, who doesn't enjoy the Doctor being a disaster and angsting? I'll make it all better again, honest.) 
> 
> Also, as is presumably clear, I am a complete sucker for stitching canons together and filling in blanks, and am sure you can tell I'm having way _way_ too much fun with this. So, there will be one more chapter of that (detailing The Great Plan and Eden), before we re-join ‘the present’. Apologies if you are eager to see What Happened Next, this story has become a huge self-indulgence. But I _will_ get back to Crowley & Aziraphale, promise.
> 
> ETA: Sorry about the wait for the next chapter, but RL is... _busy_. But don't worry, I _will_ get there. Just give me time... (9 Feb 2020)


	5. The Great Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _BEELZEBUB: The Great Plan. It is written. There shall be a world and it shall last for six thousand years and end in fire and flame..._
> 
> Or: The Doctor gets A Great Idea (with a little help from a friend).
> 
>  _AMY: Okay… so is THIS what you do at night when we’re sleeping? Have extra adventures?  
>  DOCTOR: I don’t sleep as much as you. I keep busy._  
> Minisode: ‘Good Night’
> 
>  _To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:_  
>  _Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n._  
>  Satan; Paradise Lost, Book 1, lines 262-263

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM BACK!! Hope you'll think this worth waiting for. <3 (And yeah, this chapter got split in half… Those who know me are well aware that I am physically incapable of writing anything short.) 
> 
> On the plus side the next part is almost entirely done and _all my visitors have left omg_. The freedom is amazing. And (as always) huge thanks to my amazing betas, without whom this would be a lesser thing entirely.
> 
> (Doctor Who-wise we are still post-S11 and ‘Resolution’, and pre-S12.)

Life as the Doctor’s friend was a rollercoaster. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively.

At any given point Graham O’Brien (widower, cancer survivor, retired bus driver) would have said he preferred the ‘figuratively’ option — if options were available which of course they usually weren’t, it was more often a case of ‘throw yourself down the chute if you want to stay alive for at least the time it’ll take to slide down to the bottom, screaming’ — except one time, which was so odd that he later thought he might have hallucinated it. Especially since the Doctor never mentioned it again.

She’d shown up on his doorstep wearing a peculiar red and gold robe, with a worried look on her face. It was a look that made Graham worried too — like she was a million miles away, and whatever she was looking at in the far far distance wasn’t going well. The sort of face someone would make if they could see a mushroom cloud slowly unfurling on the horizon.

“What’s with the outfit Doc?” he asked, aiming for jocular and hopefully inviting her to explain whatever problems were afoot as she walked circles in his front room, picking things off the shelves before putting them down somewhere else.

“Um, there was an explosion and the wardrobe ended up in the swimming pool. Had to find alternative clothing,” she replied absentmindedly, turning over a small ceramic frog.

“An explosion?” Graham repeated, trying to square the odd distance in her voice with what she was saying. “You okay? No damage?”

“ _Damage_?” She frowned at the frog. “Depends on what you mean… Complicated question. Remember the frog universe? It was a bit like that, but different. Not anti-matter. Just _other_ matter. Not a Big Bang, more of a… small, additional bang? A sideways Bang? Like… No, don’t talk about bubbles, no one ever understands that.”

Graham sighed deeply. He knew what babbling meant. One: He’d never be able to decipher it, and Two: She was covering for something else.

“ _Doc_. Are we in danger?”

At this her head snapped up, the abrupt focus rather unnerving.

“Danger? Why would we be in danger? Wait, did something happen?”

Graham spread his hands. 

“Look, every time you show up and start talking all that sci-fi gobbeldy-gook, it usually means that the Earth’s in danger.”

But the Doctor merely shook her head mutely, eyes again staring into that distance that he couldn’t guess at. She looked terribly sad.

“If only it was that simple…”

Resigning himself to the fact that he’d get no sense out of her, he made a decision. Tea was the cure for all ills, he knew that much. Loved a cuppa, did the Doctor.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. Finally she looked at him properly, a bright smile momentarily lighting up her face.

“Tea! Yes, cuppa tea, that’s the ticket.”

Returning a couple of minutes later to find most of the knick knacks in new places and the Doctor busy building a large and elaborate card tower, he wondered how to get her to talk. Maybe blunt was the way to go.

“Look Doc, something’s happened, I can tell. It’s not another one of them Daleks, is it?”

Greedily she took the mug from him, and carefully blew on the hot brew.

“Hm? Oh no.”

A beat, then she added: “Do you believe in God, Graham?”

Well that was a big question out of nowhere. He considered it carefully.

“Grace did. I don’t know.”

She went silent, sipping her tea, then:

“Do you think if God existed they had a _plan_? That everything… is all happening for a reason? That there’s a bigger purpose?”

Blimey. This was a side of her he’d not really seen before. 

“Grace used to say that God doesn’t play dice with the universe.”

Her gaze once more disappeared off towards that horizon which was so elusive, except this time with a little frown added:

“ _Dice_? Why would I play _dice_ with the universe? How would that even _work_?”

He blinked. Surely he’d misheard.

“Pardon?”

She seemed to shake awake.

“Um, nothing.”

She got up again, wandered over to the bookshelves and let her fingers drift across the spines. 

“I should invent books. Books are good.”

“Think you’re a little late there,” he smiled, and she half-smiled in return.

“You have no idea.”

Pulling out a book at random she flicked through it and then stopped. Turned back to the beginning, her focus abruptly shifting.

“Now there’s an idea… I could do it. Yes. That would keep them busy. And humans are fab. Keep ‘em occupied for _ages_ … And they know how to build planets already…”

“Doctor?”

When she looked up, the change was startling. There was a new light in her eyes.

“Can I borrow this?” she asked, holding up the book, and he realised that it was Grace’s old Children’s Bible. Beautifully illustrated and neatly written, everything relayed in proper stories — from the garden of Eden right through to the End of Days. Not like the modern ones he’d seen around, with cartoon pictures and everything sanitised.

“If you promise to look after it, it was Grace’s…”

“Of course.” And there was that smile, the Doctor Patented Smile that could probably power a small town: “Trust me. It’s going to be… _great_.”

~o~

God didn’t know why She hadn’t thought of it before, but an Earth and humans were the obvious answer.

After all, Earth was Her favourite planet and humans Her favourite species ( _’That She hadn’t created’_ , Her mind filled in, an addendum that made Her feel distinctly odd), so it made all the sense in the world. 

At this point God’s mind split off into so many different sections and subsections that to follow Her thoughts properly we would need a large-scale 3D diagram. Probably interactive. And with footnotes.

Instead we will attempt to summarise Her main thought processes and decisions in more or less chronological order, as something of a Memo To Self. You can imagine Her in Her office in Heaven, leaning back on the chair with Her feet on the desk, tossing scrunched up balls of paper at the clockwork squirrel whilst trying to think through it all and jotting down notes:

> • Encyclopaedic knowledge of Earth: check! :D Can fast-track like the rest of universe. But more compelling because lots more details (Ecosystem! Animals! Vegetation! Micro-organisms! Etc etc), plenty for 10 million angels.  
>  • Dinosaurs??? Pros: Dinosaurs by definition awesome. Cons: Take a long time, not strictly necessary. (Thought: If no dinosaurs maybe add fake bones, just for a laugh? Fun to confuse future palaeontologists.)  
>  • ~~Thought: why not go all out? Hot pink mountains? Flying anteaters? Sentient rocks? All the crazy ideas I never get to use.~~ No!! Point of exercise is not self-indulgence, but creating humans for the angels to look after. (Although maybe unicorns? Just a few. Since I'm not doing dinosaurs.)  
>  • STORIES!! (Since it’s the whole point of the Bible.) People need stories. How to _create_ stories? Myths, fables, legends, mythology — how to start? (Without blundering in myself like I usually do. How to PLAN???) Garden of Eden silly. (Why put the tree right there in the garden? Why not on the moon or something?) But my humans will need _A Story_!

Having gotten this far She tipped the chair forwards and started flicking through the Children’s Bible.

> • Noah’s Ark, Joseph’s multi-coloured coat, little shepherd’s boy -> King David, all good stories, yes, can use.  
>  • Garden of Eden? ~~Silly~~ TRY! The humans must like it for a reason. Pros: Aesthetics good — garden, tree, apple, snake. (Snakes are cool.) Cons: A god who punishes people for seeking knowledge. :(

At this point there followed a lot of doodles of snakes, apples and trees, and scribbled out arguments. Eventually She picked up the Children’s Bible again, turning back to the first page. Maybe there was more to it than a big divine 'gotcha'? 

It took a while — God wasn’t used to thinking in these terms, She much preferred being trapped in a vampire monkey pit and figuring out how to escape — but then all of a sudden She realised what it reminded her of…

> • It’s like the Starwhale!!! :O Not exactly, but it’s a CHOICE! Protest or forget! The language is weird, but that’s it!

A slow, luminous smile spread across Her face. Oh, but that was _beautiful_. She suddenly felt very excited about Her Earth. 

If She was being 100% honest with Herself, She would’ve had to admit that a lot of the excitement was relief in disguise. She was not exactly doing great after The Fall, and finding a _simple_ solution was a godsend (although in this instance not something sent by God, but to Her) which made Her feel like maybe, possibly, this new project would actually succeed and not go belly-up like the angels had. 

> • PLAN: Classic Earth (all info already in TARDIS databanks, yesss! _So much easier!_ )  
>  • Garden of Eden — easy as pie (remember angels w/flaming swords to guard the gates!)  
>  • Human nature v curious by default. Big _‘Do Not Touch’_ sign = humans all over it (reverse psychology ftw)  
>  • If chosen humans happen to be too obedient, Lucifer bound to interfere — must be going mad that I’m ignoring him >:)  
>  • Classic Earth = Biblical timeline & events = follow Earth history?

Staring at that last question She got out a pack of Post-Its and began jotting down notes: the Chinese dynasties, the Mayans and the Aztecs, African kingdoms, as well as a whole plethora of other Origin Stories… Making sure to insert the notes at approximately the correct historical points, to ensure it all unfolded as it should. She didn’t want King David in the 18th century. Again.

(Idly She wondered if this was how any of the aliens who had interfered with Earth history had worked… Although presumably with fewer Post-Its. She made a note to Herself to ask the Master their opinion on Post-It Notes the next time they showed up. And then She threw it away, being as it was not strictly relevant to the matter at hand.) 

When She was done She grinned to Herself, wrote ‘Great Plan’ with a wink-y face below on the final Post-It and stuck it on the front of the Bible. 

(The fact that She still hadn’t done anything about de-hierarchy-ing Her angels She tried not to dwell on. One thing at a time.)

“What do you think?” She asked the clockwork squirrel, which didn’t reply. “Shall I make some real squirrels?”

Still no reply.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She left Her ‘Great Plan’ on the desk and walked off to gather the angels and tell them the news.

~o~

The ruler of Hell was not a happy camper. Camping had of course not been invited yet, but even so it was a fairly accurate description of the demons’ current situation. Everything was clammy in the exact way that being stuck in a tent with no heating and rain forecast for the rest of eternity is clammy. That is to say: very.

One might go so far as to call it a clamminess of the soul.

Satan had made his demons create basic office spaces once they’d all made their way out of the burning lake, but Hell — no matter how far they roamed — was relentlessly dank, grimy and unpleasant, and plans to establish a health spa around the sulphur pools had not been successful. It wasn’t that he missed the dull whiteness of Heaven, but it was _insulting_ that he couldn’t fix the surroundings. 

He tapped the armrest on his throne and glowered. 

He’d been expecting a re-match — something, _anything_ — but God was silent. Although if She thought that a bit of damp would prove his undoing, She was sorely mistaken. He just needed… a way of getting back at Her. And a hot yoga session.

Then came the rumours. A new planet, a _Special Project_ that Heaven was now devoting all its resources to. After some pointless discussions with his immediate subordinates (Beelzebub’s flies were very distracting, and Dagon was annoyingly smelly now) Satan made like the Little Red Hen and decided that if something needed doing, he clearly had to do it himself. He managed to disguise himself as an angel — difficult, yes, but _dammit_ , he’d been Lucifer Morningstar, the brightest of the angels and God’s BFF, he could miracle a blonde wig and a white robe. Thus attired he snooped around until he’d found out most of the details, then skedaddled back to Hell to ponder what to do next.

God had decided to create new pets, something that raised a lot of questions — the biggest one being _why_? Was She hoping for a better outcome this time round? 

He urgently needed something clever, some sort of diabolical scheme, but wasn’t sure what tack to take. There were murmurings of a ‘Great Plan’, but the details were obviously kept under wraps. 

What to do? He looked out over his subjects and almost growled in frustration. 

When Lucifer had been recruiting for his rebellion he had done his best to win over God’s special pets, carefully noting which angels She sought out and spent time with (the Archangels apart) and the success rate had been about 50-50. 

Some had been dull goody two-shoes, impossible to seduce, but others had been a surprise — like the red-head. Crawly had _imagination_ , which was in painfully short supply in Hell, and Satan treasured it. Not that he told him so, of course, but right now (while Satan figured out how to undermine this mysterious ‘Great Plan’ properly) using the snake seemed a good bet.

He summoned Crawly (and oh how he loved being in charge, it was worth _everything_ ) and then realised he’d been a bit rash. He wasn’t actually sure what he was asking Crawly to _do_. Ah well, intimidation was second nature to him now, and as long as Crawly worried about repercussions that was the most important thing.

“Get up there and make some trouble” — that should hopefully work. 

And it did, beyond all expectation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Satan dressing up as an angel & snooping around is totally stolen from Paradise Lost, except _my_ Satan doesn't get caught. And he goes to Heaven, not Earth. But the _idea_ is from Milton. :)
> 
> ETA: One of my friends wrote a tie-in ficlet on the topic of Missy & post-its: [Question](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25255108).


	6. The Garden of Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Now the Lord God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden; and there She put the man She had formed. The Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil._  
>  Genesis 2, 8-9 (lightly adapted)
> 
>  _THE DOCTOR: It may be irrational of me, but humans are quite my favourite species._  
>  The Ark in Space (Classic Who S12, 2nd serial)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of the Doctor’s Favourite Things.

  


Gabriel eyed the small bowl of fruit on the table in front of him as if it were a bomb.

“They put this… in their… _mouths_?” he asked, clearly thinking this might be some kind of elaborate joke, and the Doctor grinned as she pressed play on the projector so they could watch the dinner scene from The Sound of Music.

_(Maria’s little yelp as she sat on the pine cone! Ahhhh, if she had to choose a movie to watch for eternity, this would be it, no question about it.)_

“It’s the human way,” she said, deeply amused. 

Michael was attempting to appear aloof and as if she was already familiar with how mammals functioned, and Uriel had adopted a very serious demeanour, obviously trying to look at the whole issue from a scientific point of view and not succeeding very well. Gabriel still looked somewhere between queasy and disbelieving, and she could see his toes curling in discomfort.

The Doctor (always happy lecturing, she’d been a _great_ lecturer!) carried on:

“The fruit provides nutrients, which gives them energy. If they don’t eat, they die.”

Michael leaned forwards and studied the bowl of fruits sceptically, before daintily picking up a cherry by the stem, twirling it experimentally, and then carefully putting it back, looking like she would like some sort of disinfectant wipe. The Doctor bit back a comment about having to get used to dealing with dirt, instead putting on a new slide, this one with more info on how food was processed. Including the… waste.

For a moment they studied it in silence.

“Lord, I don’t mean to question your wisdom, but it seems a very… _strange_ design,” Gabriel offered, his purple eyes now looking anywhere but at the screen, and the Doctor tried to look as innocent as possible.

“Oh you haven’t seen anything yet…” she beamed. “Next I’ll explain how they make babies.”

“Babies?” Uriel mouthed, glancing at her fellow Archangels and clearly wondering if they had any knowledge of this new word, but the other two looked equally discombobulated.

The angels who had been working directly on Earth matters (biology, geography and so forth) would be doing big lectures, educating the general angel population on the basics, but the Doctor had wanted to teach the Archangels herself. It was proving even more entertaining than expected.

~o~

“Aziraphale?”

The lecture theatre held ten thousand angels, and thus ten thousand pairs of eyes turned to look at Gabriel where he stood in the door.

Gabriel never minded attention and smiled a smile big enough to encompass all of them.

“Come on, don’t be shy! Today is your lucky day! … And you were marked as attending on the register, so we know you’re here.”

Very slowly a pale, nervous-looking angel with white tufty hair made its way forward.

“I’m — I’m Aziraphale,” he said, and Gabriel smiled winsomely and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Wonderful! I am here to let you know that you have been chosen as the fourth Guardian for the Garden of Eden and to escort you down to Earth.”

Aziraphale got a look of pure panic in his eyes and blinked rapidly. It would be tempting to say ‘like a deer caught in headlights’ except Gabriel — who could at this point have recited the entirety of _‘Doe, a deer, a female deer’_ from memory — had no idea what a deer actually _looked like_ , and headlights did not yet exist. 

“M — _me_?” 

Gabriel wondered if there was something wrong with the angel’s hearing as he motioned for him to follow.

“Yes Aziraphale. _You_. The Almighty Herself pulled your name out of a hat, you realise what a great honour that is, surely.”

“Of course…” Aziraphale replied, sounding as if he meant the opposite, half-running beside Gabriel as he tried to keep up with the Archangel’s long strides, before adding:

“Although I’m afraid I might not be very well suited for a position like this…”

Gabriel half turned and studied the anxious creature next to him, deciding that he probably just needed a bit of a pep-talk. God had done a lot of pep-talks since The Fall, trying get the angels cheered up, and Gabriel liked to think that anything She could do, he ought to copy. 

“Well, as the Almighty likes to say: Buck up Buttercup!” 

“B-buttercup?” Aziraphale asked, eyes wide. “I’m terribly sorry, I don’t follow. What does that _mean_?”

Gabriel chuckled. The other Principalities that he’d fetched had been a bit overawed, but nothing like as entertaining. He’d never known an angel to be so highly strung.

“Buttercup,” he explained, as always pleased to show off how close he was to the Almighty, “is a Princess. From a story called ‘The Princess Bride’.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale replied, clearly even more lost than before, but presumably aiming for feigned interest.

Gabriel didn’t know what any of it meant either, but he would rather have eaten his wings than admit it. 

Arriving in Eden, Aziraphale was struck satisfyingly speechless as Gabriel did his best to appear unaffected. He found the whole Earth-venture rather bewildering — his world had been white and uncomplicated and clearly defined, and now there was this _New Place_ , a cacophony of colour and living things and new creatures, all of it transient and mortal and off-putting. He’d asked about the name (‘Earth’? What does it mean?) and he could feel the substance under his feet _right now_ , and tried not to shudder. He wished he could just tidy it all up and organise it _properly_ ; but the Almighty seemed to _like_ the chaos, so (like any middle manager with an eccentric boss) he smiled through his discomfort and made the best of things.

At least the newly minted Guardians seemed thoroughly awestruck (as always God knew what She was doing) and he left Aziraphale with the other three, the nervousness fading as he turned on the spot, eyes wide and a slow smile spreading across his face. 

“Thank you Gabriel,” God said, four flaming swords on a trolley behind her. “I’ll take it from here.”

He inclined his head, and (with a deep sigh he hoped wasn’t too audible) went back to Heaven. Now he had to clean his feet again.

~o~

Aziraphale did his very best to listen to God’s instructions, flaming sword clasped in his hand.

“You’ve all been attending the power point sessions, yes?” the Almighty asked, and Aziraphale and his fellow Principalities nodded.

According to Gabriel the Almighty had pulled their names ‘out of a hat’, and he’d been meaning to ask the others if they knew what this meant (he didn’t know what a hat was, or why his name had been in one, and Gabriel had been rather intimidating), but so far there hadn’t been any opportunities. (He really _did_ hope he hadn't missed something important in one of the lectures. But then he hadn’t expected to actually be sent down to Earth… For the time being, he tentatively filed ‘hat’ under ‘receptacle for angel names’ and dearly hoped there wouldn’t be a quiz.) 

And now of course they had God Herself talking to them.

“Excellent. _So_! The humans will live here in the garden, and the only rule is that they’re not allowed to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil — and since there are _loads_ of other trees that shouldn’t be difficult.”

She smiled, bright and dazzling and with a strange twinkle in Her eye, like She knew a secret and wasn’t letting them in on it. 

“Your job is quite simply to _protect_ them, making sure no demons get in. There are four gates, you’ll guard one each.”

She stopped for a moment, then put Her palms together.

“Now, the demons are probably going to be quite _sly_. They’re not likely to attack you _physically_ , but if a stranger shows up by your gate and says he’s there with an urgent telegram for Mr Adam that he needs to deliver personally… Or maybe with an invite for Eve for a tupperware party or a game of croquet — no wait, those haven’t been invented yet, have they? Forget that part. The point is: If a demon shows up, just wave your sword at them and they should run away. We don’t want any _actual_ fighting obviously, what with this being literal paradise, and we want to make sure the humans are happy and undisturbed, yes?”

Aziraphale nodded again, having understood… _some_ of Her instructions. Enough, hopefully. He’d never been this close to the Almighty before, and She was even more ineffable than expected.

And he _really_ hoped he wouldn’t have to chase off a demon. In the War he had focussed on keeping his soldiers safe, and had not done too badly. He _liked_ looking after things (after all, it was his most basic function) and all things considered he thought he might quite like his new job. Eden was very beautiful, and the humans turned out to be rather delightful.

But he worried a lot about the demons.

~o~

The first time Crawly came up through the soil of Eden, he had to take several minutes to simply _sit_. (Inasmuch as a snake can ‘sit’. Maybe ‘coiled in a stupor’ would be a better description.)

No one had warned him about how impossibly _otherworldly_ Earth was, and he needed time to take in the world around him. Eden was a million miles from the dull white blandness of Heaven or the dank, dark, smelly corridors of Hell. It was… it was…

(His mind hit the edges of his vocabulary, but it wasn’t like that had ever stopped him before.)

He’d helped create stars, but somehow this was different. Space was just sort of endless and black, but the sky above him was _blue_ and strangely soft, as well as featuring small winged creatures that were definitely neither angels nor demons.

And then there were the plants. He’d never seen anything like it. Green and colourful and fragrant and _beautiful_. A snake could get itself lost in the foliage and be happy for a very long time indeed…

He immediately resolved to make his job last as long as possible.

~o~

She watched of course.

After all it was _her_ Garden of Eden and _her_ Adam and Eve and _her_ four sweet little angels. She had nifty little cameras hidden here, there and everywhere, mostly disguised as bugs, and a big alarm rigged up to The Tree. 

Above all she waited for Lucifer to make his move. He’d never heard of the Bible or Milton, but she was certain he’d guess the plot of this story. He was smart, and she knew with 100% certainty that he’d grasp a chance at hurting something she loved.

She would look at her Archangels (who were still rather baffled at the whole Earth-venture), and the empty fourth chair was a continual reminder of what she’d lost. What they’d all lost. Her beautiful Lucy. She wondered how he was getting on.

Being prone to wistful fantasies, the Doctor — for a moment — allowed herself to imagine what it would have been like to create Earth _with_ Lucifer. 

He would instinctively have understood her vision, and they could have laughed together at the other Archangels’ confusion. He would have been excited by all the possibilities of creation and helped inspire the angels to excel, thus easily shouldering a huge portion of the work. And he would have been deeply intrigued by the humans… Above all, she would’ve had someone to _share_ it all with, properly. It was so incredibly rare that she found someone who could even _begin_ to see things the way she did, that the loss felt almost like a personal insult. Why did this _keep_ happening to her? 

Her pity-party was cut short when the Tree Alarm went off.

~o~

“Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate.”

“Yes, Lord?”

“Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale, to guard the Gate of Eden?”

“Sword? Right. Um uh — Big, sharp, cutty thing.”

“Yes.”

“Uh. Oh, must have, uh must have put it down here somewhere. Um. Forget my own head next. Oh, dear.”

 _‘You lying little bastard’_ , God thought as She switched off the big spotlight She’d had pointed straight at his face, closed the (invisible) TARDIS door and returned to Her office in Heaven.

Everything had gone to plan, even more so than She could ever have hoped for. 

Snake, check. Forbidden fruit eaten, check. Humans expelled from Eden, check. (She’d put on Her sternest face and talked to them like a very disappointed parent, with a bit of ‘I am doing this for your own good’, and ‘This hurts me more than you’ thrown in for good measure.)

Except then one of the angels had gone completely off-script. 

And had proceeded to lie to Her face about it!

Settling down to watch the live feed She saw him standing on the wall, watching Adam and Eve as they set out across the dunes, and realised that the Snake was making its way up next to him.

Well this should be interesting. How the angel got along with Lucifer should tell Her everything she needed to know.

She leaned forward, curious and alert, and wondered what Lucy might look like now. She was pretty sure the snake aspect was a disguise, but how the algorithm would have affected him was anyone’s guess. As the snake changed, though, Her jaw dropped. Auburn ringlets, a face more familiar than Her own… It wasn’t Lucifer at all, it was _Red_! She grinned widely. 

God — until the rain obscured the lens of the hidden camera — eagerly watched the ensuing conversation, thoroughly delighted.

~o~

Crawly turned out to be a bigger asset than Satan had expected, and he had quickly come to be known as ‘The Serpent of Eden’, a nice little epithet to celebrate the early victory. Because of this Satan let his serpent have a slightly longer leash (which he’d yank now and again just to watch Crawly quail in terror), but overall he was pleased. Especially since his vague favouritism made all the other demons jealous and isolated Crawly. It was almost too easy.

Satan deeply despised every other demon in Hell.

~o~

The days ran together, but at least days were now an actual thing. The Doctor loved nothing more than to go for tiny trips in the TARDIS and just sit in the doorway, watching her Earth turn below. Light turning to dark, dark turning to light. Or she would land somewhere remote and sink down in the grass or sand or earth or snow, feeling the globe spin beneath her, smelling the thousand scents on the breeze and hearing the rustling of creatures great and small.

_(Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings  
These are a few of my favourite things)_

Her world was beautiful and the little trips provided a nice break from managing a project that (to her great chagrin) had become even more time-consuming than she had imagined. She _did_ have further plans, but merely muttered something about it all being ineffable (such a _useful_ word!) when the Archangels asked. She wanted to enjoy the relative quiet, just for a while.

(She was under no illusions that, when it came to the humans, their basic nature would kick in sooner rather than later. After all, Adam had killed a lion within minutes of leaving the Garden. Yes, they would invent war and cruelty, much like they’d start creating art and music and dancing and writing and sandwiches and badminton and doormats and alcohol and teddy bears and edible ball bearings and all the rest. It was all of a piece, and you couldn’t have one and not the rest.)

~o~

Crawly wondered about God.

The exact details of his Fall were a little hazy, but he was sure questions had been involved. Except She’d used to _love_ his questions back in the day when She’d stopped by to chat to him (although to be fair, he’d been the one to do most of the talking, and She had rarely answered).

And now here were the humans, thrown out of Eden because of essentially the same thing… seeking knowledge in the only way possible. 

Why did God punish Her creation for wanting to know things? 

Why create them inquisitive in the first place only to smack them down? 

Why _any_ of it?

Satan of course said God was a controlling manipulative tyrant — well it takes one to know one, Crawly figured.

When he tried to think back to _Before_ , all he could remember was Her brilliant smile, Her laughter, Her delight in the stars he had created . . . .

And yet here he was. Here the humans were. Cast down, thrown out. The details of his own Fall might be fuzzy, but he was most certainly _Fallen_ now. 

The humans’ fall had been less spectacular (no endless dive into a pool of burning sulphur) although on the other hand they’d had vicious animals to contend with.

Had She created them just to break them?

Why would anyone _do_ that?

He felt his brow draw together as anger, dark and choking, rose in his chest. 

A small human tugged at his sleeve. Crawly blinked, and was back by the campfire he had wandered towards when looking for humans to tempt. He still hadn’t really decided how to tackle the tempting aspect now humans, too, were ‘fallen’, but Satan had made sure to let him know that his early success meant nothing if he couldn’t keep it up.

“Why do your eyes look like that?” the small human asked, eyes wide and curious. “Why are they that colour? They look a bit like fire, are they made of fire? Are they hot? Do they hurt? What is fire made of? My mummy said that an angel gave us fire, is that true? What’s an angel? What do they look like? Do they have eyes like fire too?”

Crawly smiled. 

Small humans, he decided, were undoubtedly his Favourite Thing.

~o~

In the end the Doctor didn’t _decide_ to leave so much as realise she was completely out of tea.

She glanced at her new little Earth, but it was very very early days (tiny pockets of communities, a few angels, a few demons, the whole thing barely begun) and it’d be a while before they invented tea. (Should've thought to fast-track that one while she was skipping the dinosaurs. Hindsight is 20/20.)

Really she ought to have picked up a few bits and pieces when she went to see Graham, but she’d been somewhat preoccupied. 

Besides she never had gotten that break. She felt like she hadn’t slept in centuries (and quite possibly hadn’t), so one tiny holiday was surely allowed? 

She picked up a piece of paper, wrote _‘Back soon’_ on it and stuck it on her office door, then quietly stole away, the TARDIS engines (as always) set to silent. If there were any emergencies while she was away (she wasn’t planning on being gone for more than 24 hours, but you never knew — it's not like she was omniscient or something) the Metatron was there and should be able to walk them through most issues. (Yana had been _lovely_ , with a Time Lord’s intellect and knowledge at his fingertips. He’d do just fine.)

Yes, it’d be _fine_. 

It wasn’t until she turned the handle that took her between universes that she could feel the exhaustion settle like a mantle. She leaned back against a pillar, took a deep breath and, like the parent of a toddler getting a day off, willed herself to relax. 

A long bath, a good meal, check up on anything mechanical, and then give her ‘fam’ a quick call, do a bit of running. Perfect break.

~o~

Centuries passed.

God’s office was silent and empty, except for the odd instance of an Archangel consulting The Great Plan. 

The clockwork squirrel ran entirely out of power. 

And then one day a creature opened the door who had not stepped foot in Heaven for a very, very long time indeed. He was well-disguised — any passing angel wouldn’t have looked at him twice — although his image ought to have been burned into their retinas. He’d once had blue eyes and golden hair and he had been the first to Fall… 

Now, however, his purpose was very different.

Silently closing the door behind him, he walked up to the desk and picked up the Children’s Bible that lay there, festooned with colourful Post-Its. He closed his eyes and concentrated, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. 

It was the smile of someone who had been frustrated for a very long time, and had finally found an answer. A petty, malicious kind of smile. The smile of a football hooligan singing _‘Thirty years of hurt/Never stopped me dreaming’_ as they vandalise an opposition team’s winning trophy. (Satan was thrilled at humanity’s propensity for petty rivalries and devoted several departments to further this aim.)

As silently as he’d arrived he left, but soon afterwards memos and directives began issuing forth from Infernal Management and Administration in hitherto unknown volumes. Hell had a _Purpose_ , and Satan began to lay down the first building blocks of Armageddon. It would take several millennia for the careful foundations to blossom into The End Times, for all his meticulous planning to pay off and make the whole world bend to the will of a single child. But Satan had always been smart, and he was patient too. He would destroy humanity ( _God’s Vanity Project_ , as he called them) and win his rightful place, sitting on God’s throne. 

God didn’t actually have a throne as such (just a regular chair), but he could bring his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realise that my posting is rather slow, but _a stupid amount of work_ goes into the writing (and betaing!). For serious, it's more labour intensive than anything else I've written in my 15 years of fic writing, and I can just hope you think it worth waiting for. Thank you again for reading, I love you all. <3
> 
> ETA: A note on all the lectures and explaining to the angels about human biology. Aziraphale (when confessing to Crawly about giving away his sword), tries to defend himself, pointing out the reasons they might need a sword - one of them being that Eve is already pregnant: Ergo, the angels have been informed how it all works. Crawly, on the other hand, _doesn't_. (Neil Gaiman [confirmed this on Twitter](https://twitter.com/ShepherdDoge/status/1191189989461151745).) Therefore: The angels know about 'the birds and the bees' and the demons don't... (Also it was just great fun to write!!)


	7. Losing My Religion (God)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, life is bigger  
>  It's bigger  
> Than you and you are not me  
> The lengths that I will go to  
> The distance in your eyes  
> Oh no, I've said too much  
> I set it up_  
> R.E.M., [Losing My Religion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwtdhWltSIg)
> 
> _What if God was one of us  
>  Just a slob like one of us  
> Nobody callin' on the phone  
> 'Cept for the Pope, maybe, in Rome _  
> Joan Osborne, [One Of Us](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6te4xieQDg)
> 
> (Or: The Doctor learns that there are always consequences) (again, again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Six thousand years later…
> 
> (In _Doctor Who_ terms this is set during S12, between _Episode 7: Can You Hear Me?_ and _Episode 8: The Haunting of Villa Diodati_ , but only containing one spoiler from _Can You Hear Me?_ , which I tried to keep as vague as possible — however, the villain of that ep was too apt not to reference.)
> 
> Also please note that this chapter is the first of what I am (rather grandly) referring to as a ‘triptych’: That is, Chapters 7, 8 and 9 are all titled ‘Losing my Religion’, each chapter focussing on a different character. ETA: OK, Chapters 7, 9 and 10. Chapter 8 became an interlude.
> 
>  ~~For overall length of the fic, I believe it'll come to 12 chapters. :)~~ Update: Ahahahahah, no.

The Doctor did of course return.

Eventually. 

The reason for her tardiness had nothing to do with testing her creation, it was a simple miscalculation. 

In the end she had decided to leave a gap of about a week, to see how Heaven had gotten along without her, but when flicking switches accidentally chose ‘6000 years’ instead of ‘6 days’. These things happen to time travellers all the time. Or at least so the Doctor presumed.

What she had gotten up to whilst away is not a matter for this story to chronicle. Suffice it to say that she almost felt a sense of relief as her own little pocket universe reasserted itself around Her.

No alien armies (or strange gods) would have been attacking _this_ little Earth; its humans as safe as could be, excepting their own natures and the odd demonic temptation. Yes, this she could do, she felt. No unpleasant surprises, just angels and demons and humans. Known quantities. 

She even had her ‘final’ plan more or less completely worked out now, and felt ready to tackle _everything_ : Lucifer, the hierarchy, the lot. Funny how dealing with a whole different set of problems had helped put this world into perspective.

Her office in Heaven was still the same, although it seemed a little dusty. She poked the clockwork squirrel (which was apparently playing dead) and then decided to check up on things. 

Belatedly she remembered that she wasn’t wearing her robe, but nevermind. Humans would start making proper clothes soon enough, and the angels would do well to…

The idle musings trailed off, and then her whole brain tilted and any thoughts slid right off the edge and disappeared. Outside the big windows — where there had been a view of the Garden of Eden and the smattering of primitive human settlements that had begun to spring up — was… _the world_. Pyramids, St Paul’s, Big Ben, the Eiffel tower, skyscrapers…

In a daze she walked to the windows, laid her palms flat against the glass, staring, brain still unable to take in what she was seeing.

“Lord!”

And as if on cue, Gabriel was by her side.

She slowly turned her head, and blinked at the sight that greeted her.

It was certainly Gabriel, from his lilac eyes down to his… not toes, no, down to his extremely nice and expensive shoes, and in-between the eyes and the shoes there was a very stylish and expensive _suit_.

As for the smile… It was not the joyful, no-holds barred grin she was used to. No, it seemed forced and nervous, like a CEO who has to tell the shareholders that all their money is gone. 

“Gabriel? What happened here?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and moving her gaze she saw Michael — busy on an iPhone sized-and-shaped piece of glass and also wearing, well, _clothing_ — but at her words Michael looked up and the glass phone dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor. She literally put a hand to her chest in shock.

“ _Lord_ …”

“What _happened_?” the Doctor repeated, now with an edge to her words, and at that moment Uriel appeared, eyes widening and face visibly paling.

“Why don’t we… go somewhere more private,” Gabriel suggested, and the Doctor looked between them, then slowly nodded.

“Okay.”

(Sandalphon marched into the meeting room right after the Archangels, and the Doctor had to tell him to wait outside — which reminded her a bit of having to leave a dog tied up outside a shop, but _dammit_ , he wasn’t an Archangel, and she didn’t like what his presumption of inclusion revealed.)

Other angels had seen them of course, and within moments the news was spreading.

_God has returned!_

It’s not _quite_ accurate to say that ten million angels all at the same time slowly inched closer towards the door behind which the Archangels had to tell God the news that they had _failed_ to bring about Armageddon. But it’s not entirely incorrect either.

For a while they couldn’t hear much at all, just the rise and fall of Gabriel’s voice, the muffled words mostly indistinguishable, but then there was an outburst — so loud it made the eavesdropping angels jump like birds on an electricity wire, fluttering in shock.

“You _WHAT_?”

~o~

“Where the He- Where have you _been_?”

The words hung in the bookshop, and God tried not to wince. Somehow She had a feeling that the truth wouldn’t do much to calm the anger — Her ‘Red’ might still have his arms around an angel, but the sweetness of the kiss She had witnessed was quite clearly receding as he took on board Her presence. 

On the other hand She didn’t really want to lie to them either…

_Smile, hold up your hands, defuse the situation._

“Look, I’ll explain later.”

(Old faithful, had never let Her down.)

“I just came to say _thank you_ , for saving the world. From… certain other people.”

At her words Aziraphale began smiling, a slow and beautiful thing that seemed to spread across his whole person.

“So… we were _right_? The Great Plan is not the same as the Ineffable Plan?”

The Archangels’ faces flashed before Her eyes and She smiled tightly.

“You were _very_ much correct.”

~o~

“You _WHAT_?”

God could feel the whole world white-out in fury. The kind of fury that could sustain Her through four and a half billion years. The kind of fury that made demons run. The kind of fury that had caused Her take the Laws of Time and declare them Her own…

She saw the effect on the Archangels’ faces, the sudden terror. 

(Good. _Be_ afraid. Be _very_ afraid.)

“Are you telling me… That you were going to unleash Armageddon on _MY_ Earth, killing all of _MY_ humans, just so you could carry on your _stupid war_?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, fish-like, but no sound came out.

“Give me a single — one _single_ reason — that you shouldn’t all Fall _this instant_?” 

Looking at his fellow Archangels, but finding no help there, Gabriel finally spoke:

“But — But — The Great Plan…” 

She tried (and failed) not to explode again.

“It’s a bloody _Children’s Bible_ with historical cross-references, you absolute wazzock1!”

She started pacing, needing to do something with the angry, restless energy that made Her want to hit them with Her shoe (very hard).

“You are _so_ lucky I’m no longer Scottish,” She remarked, “I had _zero_ patience with stupid people then…”

(Clearly Lucifer had been running rings around them all. But why hadn’t the Metatron… Oh _crap_. She could easily imagine the smirk.)

They were still silent, so She threw herself down in a chair and tapped Her fingers on the table. 

“So. Who do I have to thank for the world still being here?”

~o~

Bookshop.

Angel. Demon. _Sweethearts_. (In every sense of the word.) Don’t let your anger spill over here.

She took a deep breath. And another.

“You know what, let’s not talk about it. I need some time. If it hadn’t been for you two…”

(Breathe through it, it’s not who you are — not anymore — you will _not_ rain down vengeance.)

“…I don’t know.”

She closed Her eyes briefly, banishing the images of all the destroyed planets She had ever seen which were dancing behind Her eyelids. Her angels. _Her_ angels. Well, Mummy was back and there would be consequences:

“As it is, Gabriel, Beelzebub and all the rest are sitting on an asteroid with dunces’ hats on their heads while they think about the choices they made.”

They were now both of them looking at Her with pure disbelief.

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, and God shot him a sharp grin.

“For now. I have… further plans, shall we say.”

Aziraphale exhibited what could only be termed schadenfreude (although he was clearly doing his best to hide it). Red seemed cautious (but not like he was about to yell again immediately), and God felt like She could maybe breathe again.

They had changed, both of them. Red looked stylishly sharp and dangerous in black-on-black, his short hair like a crimson flame and his eyes accentuating his serpentine qualities — She could almost _see_ how he was coiled for action, ready to go on the offensive again should She give him occasion. Aziraphale was channelling a cuddly beige professor, with layers of cosy waistcoats and jackets, and wearing a bowtie that God instantly approved of. A beat, then She tilted Her head.

“Actually, could I have a cup of tea? I’ve had a _rubbish_ day so far, and I’m absolutely parched. Wait, do you _have_ tea? Angels don’t drink, do they?”

Aziraphale blinked, looked at Red, then cautiously nodded.

“I… am rather fond of tea. I can put the kettle on in a jiffy, certainly.” 

He stopped, and studied Her with a strange look.

“I’m sorry Lord, I just didn’t realise that you… consume food?”

“Most things gotta eat,” She replied. “And I’m not an angel…”

He hesitated for another second, but then disappeared to wherever the tea preparation facilities lived.

Red looked at Her for the longest moment, then shook his head, before pulling a pair of sunglasses out of a pocket.

“Well, come take a seat,” he said, face unreadable and eyes now hidden by the glasses.

~o~

Hell was… well, She’d been to worse places. She wasn’t sure whether that was a point in its favour, or against.

She looked around, ignoring the panic spreading outwards in circles from where She had materialised, and took in the damp, the smells, the grime, the low ceilings and cramped corridors, the posters in Comic Sans… 

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” She said to Beelzebub who was gripping the arm rests on their throne with palpable fear, but doing their best to affect nonchalance.

“Thankzzzz,” they replied, then added, their voice so expressionless as to render the words an insult: “To what do we owe the honour?”

“Just checking up,” God replied. “Been a while. How have you been?”

“Fine without _you_ ,” Dagon said around clenched teeth, and God lifted an eyebrow.

“ _Rude_. That’s you off my Christmas card list. If I wrote Christmas cards, that is — I’d be brilliant at writing Christmas cards! But, unfortunately for my friends I’m usually too busy foiling evil to have time for any writing.”

“Not been doing a very good job of foiling _us_ , have you?” Hastur snarked from his position cowering behind the throne, and God’s smile widened as She walked around it to eye him up.

“Since when does a demon know anything about God’s ineffability?” She asked, then wrinkled Her nose. “Although can I just say, the sulphur is bad enough — the lack of personal hygiene on top of that is basically inexcusable. Anyway, you are not looking _anywhere_ near scared enough. _I_ am about to make some _changes_.”

“Changezz?” Beelzebub asked and God almost twinkled with mischief. The anger was still bubbling under the surface, but She felt on easier footing here. Bantering with enemies was second nature.

“A _great_ many changes. Although first of all — take me to your leader!”

(She would never tire of that line. Never.)

Looking up at Satan a little later, the endlessly tall (semi-naked) redness towering over Her, She raised an eyebrow.

“Hello Lucy. Long time, no see. Although can I just say — blimey, you’ve grown.” A beat, as She tilted Her head. “Mind you, I’ve seen bigger.”

“So you have come just to insult me,” he sneered, unimpressed. 

“Oh no,” She smiled. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s _incredibly_ tempting. So many puns there ready and waiting. But, I’m here for a very different reason. How would you like to go ice skating? I think the latest thing is ‘Frozen on Ice’?”

“And still you prattle on,” Satan returned disdainfully. “I see you haven’t changed at all. Can’t believe no one else ever saw through it.”

“And that’s where people like you get me wrong,” the Almighty said, shaking Her head. “Biggest gob in the universe, yes, but you should _always_ pay attention to what I’m saying.”

She lifted Her sonic and saw Satan’s face slowly change from superior smugness to uncertain alarm. (Always the same look on their faces when they realised they’d been outwitted. Yet another thing She’d never tire of.)

A final wide, cool grin, as She did a casual hair toss:

“Because guess what? I’m about to make Hell freeze over…”

~o~

The seat turned out to be a nice old-fashioned chair by Aziraphale’s desk, with added cushions.

“Oh, I’m getting the comfy chair,” She grinned. “Should I be worried?”

Red sort of _paused_ , before turning towards Her, silent, but obviously watching Her, so She decided to elaborate:

“Monty Python? No One Expects The Spanish Inquisition? C’mon, you must be familiar — the Dead Parrot sketch, the Holy Grail, the Lumberjack song… You _must_ have Monty Python here, surely?”

She shot him a questioning look as She sat down, and he nodded, face still unreadable, as he took a seat on the sofa alongside. (‘Taking a seat’ was not really accurate, he sort of… made all his limbs go in separate directions, mostly horizontal, whilst letting gravity do the rest. And how he managed to look exceptionally relaxed whilst also exuding defensiveness She wasn’t sure, but he pulled it off without a hitch.)

“Yeah, I’m familiar,” he finally said, then fell silent again. 

Looking around and taking in Her surroundings, God noted the delightfully cluttered desk, an extension of the delightfully cluttered bookshop, and She wished She could wrap the whole place around Her, the cosiness like a balm. Clearly here was someone who had decided that Heaven’s minimal look wasn’t for them. And quite right too!

Then Aziraphale appeared with a tray and proceeded to dole out cups of tea before taking a seat next to Red. 

(They were holding hands. She pretended not to notice, even as She wanted to pet them. _Too cute for words._ )

There were biscuits too, and when She asked if he had any custard creams Aziraphale miracled some immediately. She grinned so widely She felt like She might split.

“I’ve _missed_ this. I don’t… I don’t think I could ever put it into words what this place means to me. This world, and you wonderful creatures. Nothing, _nothing_ has ever been like it. Literally miraculous. In the very beginning… Oh it really was heaven.”

She took another sip, allowed Herself to fall into the memories — the unadulterated happiness of those early days.

“ _You’ll_ remember,” She said to Red, looking up. “Back in the day, when you’d be working on star systems and I’d stop by and chat about… anything and everything. You were so bright, so full of questions and ideas and cheek…”

Without thinking She reached out and stroked his face (like a mother will unconsciously pat an adult child on the head), smiling to Herself and barely noticing the way he froze.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you were my favourite. I know it’s not the done thing to have favourites, but you… Just such a lively mind. You must have had a field day with Plato and Aristotle and Socrates and Descartes and… well, all of them.”

Blank silence greeted Her words.

Aziraphale had turned to Red, his eyes full of questions, and looking… hurt.

“You… were Her _favourite_? You never mentioned.”

Red was still frozen, and God wasn’t sure exactly what the expression on his face was.

“That was a long time ago,” he said eventually, as if the words were being wrenched from his chest and costing him dearly, the bitterness in his voice scalding. “And… even if I was, it didn’t matter in the end, did it? I Fell just like the rest of them.”

God felt a distinct stab of guilt and cleared Her throat. No time like the present, right? Make amends and all that jazz.

“Listen, it was… complicated. What with the War and everything, it was such a long day, I never wanted to… Would you like me to undo it?”

She dug into her pocket and brought out Her phone, scrolling along the screens until She hit the right one.

Looking up She saw both of them stare at Her, open mouthed once more.

“It’s… _an app_? You can make us Fall or Rise _with an app_?” Red asked, voice somewhere between incensed and incredulous, and She did a little half-smile.

“Surely you’ve heard the theory that any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic? It’s perfectly true.” She cast Her mind back, smile widening. “Works in reverse too by the way. There was this time where I was Merlin-”

“That’s not the _point_!” Red’s anger was rising again. “It’s just _a tap of a button_ to you? Eternal suffering and pain, and that’s all it is?”

“Listen-”

But he wasn’t listening, he was _furious_.

“So what actually happened? I used to wonder what I did, but maybe your finger just slipped? What did I _do_?” 

Oh bugger, She’d truly landed Herself in it this time. Think, think…

“You… asked too many questions.”

He made a strange sputtering sound, waving his hands in the air and She felt the weight of the glare of his eyes, even though they were hidden:

“ _And why was that a crime_?”

This was dangerous territory. How to deflect…

“Because…”

She stopped. _Because She had answered._ But She couldn’t tell him that.

“Look, it was… never supposed to be as permanent as it became — I just needed some sort of Time Out or… Naughty Step-”

“Naughty Step? _Hell_ was The Naughty Step — what is _wrong_ with you?”

“I’m _not_ having this argument again!” She snapped, and then immediately realised Her mistake.

“Again? What do you mean _again_?”

“It’s nothing-”

“Wait…” He reached out, put a hand against the angel to steady himself, and God could feel Her hearts hammering. _Oh no, please don’t…_

“I remember…” he whispered. “I _remember_.”

Slowly, slowly he lifted his head, and She saw the old anger light up like hellfire, and despite the glasses She knew exactly the disdain in his eyes. 

“You… you _hypocrite_!”

He stood — a slow, deliberate, fluid motion, and removed his glasses at the same time, his snake-eyes cold and infuriated. 

“I _remember_! And what the Heaven are you doing here, pretending to care? Did you think I would believe the propaganda?” 

His voice turning mocking, face a sneer: “Our Lord Almighty, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness…”

She rose in response, that solid core of anger still burning and bursting into flame once more:

“Oh no you _don’t_! You may not like me, but I _made_ you! There was _nothing_ here before me. I _created_ this universe, I _nurtured_ you and helped you evolve and I gave you a whole world to enjoy. And I _loved_ you. Two hearts more full of love than you can ever imagine, and you threw it all back in my face! Don’t you _dare_ tell me about caring!”

The anger between them was almost a physical thing, crackling in the air; then he shook his head, lifting his chin in defiance. 

“In that case, I _defy_ you. I defy _you_ , and I defy _everything you are_. Everything you have _done_ : Every fallen angel, every dead child, everything done in your name! Go on: _Smite me_! Punish me for my apostasy.”

He flung out his arms ( _such_ a drama queen!) — but a second later the angel appeared between them. His face was pale and drawn and terrified, but he stood his ground, and his voice only shook a tiny bit as he spoke:

“Please Lord…”

He didn’t get any further as She sighed deeply and held up a hand. The exhaustion She had managed to ignore for a little while had risen again, and She needed a break. Anger was very draining. Both Her own, and other people’s. She felt bitter and fed up and was unable to hide the fact. She knew when She wasn’t welcome.

“Look, this was clearly a mistake. I just wanted to… thank you for saving the world, that’s all. I’ll see myself out. You’ve done _more_ than your fair share, I’ll leave you be now.”

~o~

Observe the Almighty, returning to Her TARDIS.

The insides of the box were golden and welcoming, but it didn’t really help. God leaned against the console and closed Her eyes, but all She could see was Red’s anger. (Again.) Remembered Her (failed) attempt at saving him. Why couldn’t She just have complimented his hair? Her and Her big mouth!

And now the words of a previous self were haunting Her, pin-pointing the issue with deadly accuracy:

_‘You let one of them go, but that's nothing new. Every now and then, a little victim's spared because she smiled, because he's got freckles, because they begged. And that's how you live with yourself. That's how you slaughter millions. Because once in a while, on a whim, if the wind's in the right direction, you happen to be kind.’_

With a huge mental effort She shoved him back into the dark corner where She kept all Her past selves, telling them all firmly to shut up. 

Saving _someone_ (because so many others were beyond help) wasn’t a bad thing. Donna had taught Her that. But for the person you were trying to save to _question_ it, for that person to see through your motives and to refuse their assigned part… That had been an unwelcome lesson. 

She had been hoping for a nice visit — a good, productive visit where She could sort things out properly, implement Her ‘Ineffable Plan’ so the whole show would just run itself. Except now She had the aftermath of a botched Armageddon to unravel, and six thousand years’ of history to deal with. It felt like the whole universe was resentful and contrary, neither Heaven or Hell on Her side, and the two creatures She had hoped to at least be able to _talk_ to had shown Her yet again why Gods didn’t have friends. 

(All Gods had were voices in their head from their past, denouncing them.

 _‘Oh, the way you look at me. What is that? I'm trying to think of a better word than dread.’_ )

Why wouldn’t Her past selves stay put? She thought grumpily. And joining them was the most recent accuser — the face some sort of cosmic fortuity, but it made everything ten times worse. Like Her past selves had risen up and taken physical form, just to spite Her:

_‘I defy everything you are. Everything you have done: Every fallen angel, every dead child, everything done in **your name**!’_

Her name. Her _name_. Everything done in _Her_ name. The Archangels had acted in _Her name_. 

She swallowed, feeling the weight of it settle, unable to hide from the reality of it. Outside the wooden doors of Her little police box was a whole world, seven billion humans that She had caused to be. Living and dying and building temples and synagogues and churches and mosques and praying to… _Her_?

She felt cold terror piercing Her chest. Surely no. They were human, they’d just pray to whatever concept of God they thought up, not _Her_. Right? 

(Yes, She’d definitely know if billions of humans were all praying to Her, because that had actually happened once…)

Frustrated, and desperate to somehow avoid the accusations thrown at Her — _‘every dead child!’_ How many dead children in Earth history? ( _'How many children on Gallifrey?’_ ) Should She count this Earth’s children also? — She kicked the console:

“Six thousand years! Why did you make me so late?”

The TARDIS murmured a reply, but She wasn’t having it.

“ _No_! No ‘taking me to wherever I need to be’! Six _thousand_ years!”

Six thousand years of absence, for them to pour anything and everything into. All hate and love and worship and projection. All She had to do was close Her eyes to picture Zellin still standing over Her; smirking and overbearing and all-powerful. Was that how they saw Her? As someone who viewed Earth and humanity as nothing more than playthings? Something to break for fun? Was that what they thought the Fall had been about?

And _there_ it was, the huge abyss of introspection that She had been running from ever since regenerating. She looked into the dark depths, and sighed.

What did She _do_ now? She had been so busy cleaning up the mess She had found that She hadn’t even thought about Her own role in the whole thing… 

Then Her phone rang.

Blinking in surprise She pulled it out of her coat pocket and looked at it for a long moment, not recognising the number — it looked like a London area code, but from more than half a century ago. Besides which no one had Her number here. So _who_?

Tentatively choosing the ‘answer’ option, She lifted the phone to Her ear and waited, unsure how to greet the mystery caller.

“Hello?” said a nervous voice. “Are you there God? It’s me, Aziraphale.”

It took milliseconds, but the simple words were like a final, full-on assault, and all the walls She had built up, the careful compartmentalisation of Who She Was Where, the attempt at post-Regeneration _Starting Anew_ (which had been shot to hell anyway, recently) — suddenly the whole structure felt on shaky ground.

“I am,” She replied.

“Um, this is a little awkward,” the angel said. “But I was going to ask for a small favour…”

The walls of Jericho wobbled… (She devoted a small subsection of Her mind to wonder how they’d arranged that. She could think of twenty eight possibilities at the top of Her head), and then She felt them crumble. 

After all, this was the _only_ angel (out of ten million!) who had done the right thing, no matter what. From giving away his sword through his innate kindness, to risking everything to save the world. 

“Aziraphale… Of _course_ I will help. But please just use my name. I’m-” 

Why was this so hard? She had always hated people imposing godhood on Her, loved Her chosen name, the promise She had made. 

But She was _terrible_ with honesty, and somehow Her name had become all tangled up… 

Deep breath. (Who am I? _What_ am I? Who do I want to be?) Maybe She should _listen_ to Her previous selves for once, rather than run from Her past…

_‘Never be cruel and never be cowardly. And if you ever are, always make amends.’_

“-I’m the Doctor. And I’m _not_ a god.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1wazzock  
> /ˈwazək/  
> noun: wazzock; plural noun: wazzocks  
> a stupid or annoying person. Someone so dumb they can only do manual labor (from Yorkshire)  
> (1970s: of unknown origin.)
> 
> In case anyone is unfamiliar with The Comfy Chair, you can watch the sketch [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2ncJ6ciGyM).
> 
> Crowley’s Bible quotation (‘compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness…’) comes from both Exodus 34:6 and Psalm 86:15
> 
> ~
> 
> I’m sorry this chapter took so long, I hope you think it worth the wait. The pace should hopefully pick up a little now. But I’m one of the lucky ones who can work from home, so I haven’t miraculously had a lot of extra time for writing…


	8. Aziraphale’s Fall (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _AZIRAPHALE: Well I’ll be damned.  
>  CROWLEY: It’s not that bad, once you get used to it._
> 
> ~
> 
> You guys.
> 
> _They’re in love._
> 
> With _each other_.  
> ([x](https://forsomeonessake.tumblr.com/post/190563660441/you-guys-theyre-in-love-with-each))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Basically I should never plan anything, or announce anything. I _will_ have my triptych, but it over-ran, so here is an Interlude because I decided to split it up. THIS chapter is _all_ love story. Bring on the poetry! <3

The door closed behind the Almighty, and Aziraphale turned to his demon, unable to contain his emotions:

“Crowley! You made Her leave!”

Crowley, still glaring, curled his lip in distaste.

“Good riddance.”

“But She came to _thank us_! And She was so _nice_ before you went off on one.”

Crowley looked taken aback, before quickly rallying, his scorn _withering_.

“Oh yes. _Nice_. She’s very _nice_. All smiles and politeness and Keeping Up Appearances. How can’t you see through it?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands.

“It just… It seemed like… like She was on our side?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped, and then he waved his hands around, so frustrated that he could barely speak.

“Did you completely _miss_ what just happened? I haven’t been on ‘Her Side’ since _before the creation of the world_! I explicitly _refused_ to be on Her Side, wanted _nothing to do with Her_ , that is _literally_ why I Fell! Fucking… ‘This hurts me more than it hurts you’ — no! _No it didn’t_ , and I would rather spend the rest of eternity giving Hastur pedicures than sucking up to Madam Sanctimonious for another _second_.”

“But She said She would forgive-”

“Not. Interested.”

The words were curt and clipped, his whole stance unyielding and his eyes cold and angry. Aziraphale had never been more aware of him as a _demon_. 

This. This fury. _This_ was rebellion against God.

Then he sighed, suddenly tired and _just Crowley_ once more.

“Why can’t you understand that?”

There was a pause, stretching uncomfortably, as Aziraphale tried to formulate a response.

Intellectually he grasped it easily enough, but there was a gap between God’s behaviour and Crowley’s anger. A gap he couldn’t bridge, not with what he currently knew. Except that was not the actual crux of the problem, was it? 

As the years had gone on his belief in Heaven had steadily been eroded (leaving had been a relief, in the end, if he was honest), but _God_ had been another matter. And having it confirmed that the Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan were indeed different things, that She _approved_ of them (their saving of the world, their _relationship_!) had made his atrophied faith burst into fresh bloom. 

She had appeared like magic — bright and effulgent, lighting up the whole room with Her mere presence — and yes, he’d wanted to bask in Her attention. Wanted to feel like he’d gotten it right, feel the vindication of his actions, the approval like a balm. (Take that Gabriel! Take that Michael and Uriel and Sandalphon, I was _right_ and you were wrong! The Almighty is in _my_ corner.) (Aziraphale could be quite petty, but let no one say he didn’t have good cause.)

Although if he had to _choose_ — if it was a choice between _Her_ and Crowley… then he knew where his heart belonged. This choice might hurt more than his self-orchestrated fall from Heaven, but it was far simpler.

Because he _knew_ Crowley; knew the anger was a cover for pain, knew his demon, and trusted him (far more than the Almighty, despite everything). Crowley had been there for him for thousands of years, and he would follow his demon to Hell if he had to. 

He took a deep breath; the Second Circle then, presuming Dante’s poetry had any bearing on reality.

 _A place made dumb of every glimmer of light,_  
_Which bellows like tempestuous ocean birling_  
_In the batter of a two-way wind’s buffer and fight._

 _“Poet,” said I, “fain would I speak those two_  
_That seem to ride as light as any foam,_  
_And hand in hand on the dark wind drifting go.”_

 _And as desire wafts homeward dove with dove_  
_To their sweet nest, on raised and steady wing_  
_Down-dropping through the air, impelled by love,_

 _So these from Dido’s flock came fluttering_  
_And dropping towards us down the cruel wind_  
_Such power was in my affectionate summoning._ 1

Yes, such a fate he would joyfully undertake: hand in hand, and wingtip to wingtip, forever. It felt like peace, something inevitable finally settled.

(This was not the bandstand, he would not make that mistake again. Could not live with seeing _that_ look in his beloved’s eyes ever again.)

 _‘So this is how I Fall for good,’_ he thought to himself. 

(Heaven to Earth already accomplished. Now it was Earth to Hell.) 

No big rebellion, no battle, no plummet from a great height to eternal darkness — nothing except a simple, yet momentous decision, made in his bookshop on a day he had known would be Special… Never guessing how fateful it would become. 

And yet, it was only the logical outcome of every other decision he had made. Every time he had chosen Crowley over Heaven or duty or his supposed allegiance to the Almighty. (After all, going right back to the beginning, he had lied to Her about the sword, but confided in a demon…) Six thousand years of choices coming together. He wondered if She could somehow tell. If She’d use the apparatus on her mobile telephone device to make him Fall where he stood. 

If She did, then he would call it a small price for so great a boon. 

So he reached out, grasped Crowley’s hand. 

“I’m so sorry dearest, please forgive me? I wasn’t thinking straight, I think I was a little dazzled. I never meant to cause you distress.”

Slowly lifting his gaze from their hands to Crowley’s face, he sought out his demon’s eyes, speaking with great care and precision: 

“Anthony J Crowley, I love you. Please know that I choose _you_ , every time. No matter what, or _who_ , would try to come between us. And no matter the price.”

Something complicated and utterly heartbreaking passed over Crowley’s face, something so deep and raw that it made Aziraphale instinctively step forward, desperate to bridge the gap he had thoughtlessly created, his lips once more finding Crowley’s, his arms enveloping his demon, seeking to re-enforce his words in every way possible. 

It was their second kiss, but what it meant was endless miles from the first.

_However, I with thee have fixed my Lot,_  
_Certain to undergo like doom; if Death_  
_Consort with thee, Death is to me as Life;_  
_So forcible within my heart I feel_  
_The Bond of Nature draw me to my own;_  
_My own in thee, for what thou art is mine._  
_Our State cannot be severed; we are one,_  
_One Flesh; to lose thee were to lose my self._ 2

The words sprang into his mind unbidden — a snippet of Adam’s speech to Eve in Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ , as he, too, chose to eat the apple. Far grander and more poetic than anything the real Adam could ever have thought up, but uniquely fitting all the same; Eve who Fell through curiosity, and Adam who Fell because of love — unable to live without his beloved, even if the choice meant doom and death. Aziraphale had always loved the poetry and beauty of it; the high romance echoed in a thousand thousand stories where the lovers chose each other above everything else. He had never dreamed this would be _his_ story also… 

(The angel knew that Crowley would be frightfully annoyed if he had known where Aziraphale’s mind had wandered off to. Crowley had many separate and detailed rants about _Paradise Lost_ , beginning with Milton’s treatment of Eve and ending with how Satan had been handed Crowley’s starring role. Aziraphale had long since learned to avoid the subject, since no attempt at arguing in favour of one of the greatest poems ever written would make Crowley yield. Aziraphale — privately — more than suspected that Crowley had helped with certain elements in the early stages, and had then felt betrayed by the rest.) 

When they finally broke apart — Crowley still clinging to him, hands fisted in the angel’s coat — Aziraphale felt he needed to somehow lighten the mood a little, gently reaching up and stroking his demon’s beautiful hair.

“My dear. Come sit down, it’ll be fine.”

But Crowley shook his head, as he took a shuddering breath.

“Angel. No. It’s not _fine_. You can’t, you shouldn’t — just _don’t_. Don’t do that for me.”

“But-”

There was some kind of naked despair in Crowley’s eyes, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with it.

“I don’t want you to Fall. You don’t have to do that, that’s not what I meant.”

“Crowley-”

“ _Aziraphale_. I love you. I love you more than anything in the whole world, and I am telling you — _don’t_.”

“But you said-”

“Our _own_ side. _Outside_ of Heaven and Hell. What will have been the point of _any of this_ if it ends up _destroying_ you? Angel, _please_ -”

“Of course,” he immediately reassured, seeing how Crowley was getting worked up again. Sounding so broken he was leaving the angel feeling completely helpless.

“My love-” he began, then stopped, realising he had never used this endearment before, and needed to take a moment to savour it. And (with a happy jolt) he realised that there was a whole world of endearments open to him now, an endless treasure trove of affection all ready and waiting, and at the heart of it all His Love. 

And thus, like a switch had been flipped, the whole world was suddenly full of light and joy again. He was an angel in love, and there was endless exultation coursing through him, a happiness he couldn’t stem or control, it simply swept him along. _He_ loved Crowley, and Crowley loved _him_ , and it felt like they were once more bathed in sunlight, except it was all welling up from inside him… And maybe Crowley could sense it, because he seemed to relax for the first time. Aziraphale plucked one of his demon’s hands from where it was still grasping his lapel and kissed it gently.

“My love; my darling; my heart's gleam; _mi inamorato_ — what were your plans for today?” 3

Yes, he wanted to go back to where they’d left off earlier. God’s interruption had been unexpected (and eventually very upsetting), and although he felt much more himself now, Crowley probably needed a break. 

Crowley — now (oddly) looking like he was about to have a heart attack — stuttered, recovered, and suggested lunch. 

(Clever humans, inventing lunches and restaurants and delightful little aperitifs and flavour combinations to make one feel like every sense was singing. Also very good for calming down agitated demons.)

Over lunch they talked about everything and nothing — the reader is free to speculate on what subjects they might have discussed, so long as they favour topics such as what goes on a scone first, jam or clotted cream, or Why Humans Do That Thing With Their Eyebrows and generally avoid anything to do with theology and religious schisms. That the ‘jam or cream first’ argument goes back to the 11th century and rouses more feeling in many English than any religion we will politely overlook. 

Aziraphale savoured the food, Crowley drank a little too much, and afterwards they went for a long stroll on the embankment along the Thames, holding hands as they did so. Aziraphale felt that surely his heart might burst. They’d share looks, and the entire world would fall away. _‘He loves me’_ the angel would think, intoxicated with adoration. 

He half-wondered what Heaven would say if they could see him now… Except they couldn’t, could they?

_(‘Sitting on an asteroid with dunces’ hats on their heads_

_while they think about the choices they made’)_

 _‘Go away from me, Lord’_ 4 he thought, even as She smiled, ineffably, in his memory. 

He was, truth be told, beginning to get genuinely cross with the Almighty. Everything had been _perfect_ , and then She’d interrupted their First Kiss and generally complicated everything, upsetting Crowley to a degree the angel had rarely seen. And even though She had left, She was still playing gooseberry — popping up unannounced in his head and making a nuisance of Herself. 

He took a deep breath, and focussed on the world instead.

The sun was shining once more, and around them was the bustling city and the bustling river; and he marvelled yet again at the wonder of humanity. Remembered a hundred, five hundred, a thousand years back and further… The first settlers in their simple huts would have been quite astonished at the tall skyscrapers on whose mirrored surfaces the sun now winked down at the city below.

They stopped to watch the boats, some darting here and there, quick and nimble; others, wider, matronly, slowly chugging along with their cargo. He smiled, thinking of the seafarers of days past, the mighty galleons that had carried those intrepid explorers, and yet his whole world was here, (side by side and palm to palm), and he spoke almost without thinking:

_“Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, / Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown…”_ 5

He turned, and saw Crowley’s mouth quirk in recognition. Then the demon leaned in, his voice soft and silken in Aziraphale’s ear.

“Donne is it? Well two can play at that game: _Busy old fool, unruly sun…”_ 6

He let the line hang, and Aziraphale would have blushed, had he been able. 

“ _Dearest_ ,” he replied, too overcome to think of a further response, but feeling the thrill down to his toes. 

It was all _rather_ daring, this quoting of Donne. Tentatively reaching for the future they were slowly laying claim to and taking the first few steps along a new, shared, path, as they looked ahead to the ventures they had yet to reach.

All as if the morning’s visit had never happened…

_(‘I **defy** you. I defy **you** , and I defy **everything you are**.’)_

Then closed his eyes against the memory.

The anger, the pain, the issues that he had known were there… Risen up like Hamlet’s father’s ghost to haunt them, and equally impossible to banish by sheer mental effort.

Because if they were a _couple_ — properly, for real, if they were bound together; and they were, they _were_ , he felt his whole being suffused with their new reality — he felt he had an obligation, a responsibility to help. To somehow soothe the pain in his beloved’s eyes, to ease the despair that lay buried.

He did his best to ignore the impulse, but it was there; like a tiny pebble whose ability to cause discomfort is quite disproportionate to its size.

It wasn’t until that evening, after a few more bottles, when Crowley seemed to be back to his old self and they were snuggled up together, that a chance presented itself.

Crowley (always a sprawler) had at one point sighed deeply and let his head (which had been resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder) slide down and settle in the angel’s lap. Aziraphale had frozen, the intimacy so overwhelming that he thought he might faint.

Crowley had realised and looked up at him, eyes wide and cautious.

“Is this OK?”

Aziraphale nodded and with a trembling hand reached out, gently letting his fingers run through the short russet locks, as Crowley closed his eyes, exuding comfort and contentment like a purring cat. 

Could this be real? It was one thing to exchange poetry; but to be so near, so bold as to have his beloved’s head in his lap and caress him… (His inner Jane Austen heroine was both swooning and thrillingly scandalised.) No, surely it had to be a dream. Nothing could be this wonderful.

“Soft…” Crowley murmured, curling into him, as the angel contemplated the chances of actually discorporating from pure bliss.

After endless ages (or maybe just ten minutes, Aziraphale had no way of telling, but ‘eternity’ had taken on a whole new meaning), Crowley sighed again, muttering something about it having been ‘a long day’.

The angel’s hand stilled, acutely aware that he wouldn’t get a better opening.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” he asked carefully. “About… what happened? What She did to you, I mean. When you… Fell?”

It wasn’t something he’d ever asked before. Not a comfortable sort of question, not something he felt he had any right to pry into. But it was clear that whatever had happened was the source of the pain, and he wanted to do something. And he couldn’t do something without knowing what the problem was.

Crowley went completely motionless, not even breathing, and Aziraphale was already regretting speaking up. Clearly it was too much, too soon. He followed the mental struggle that was now playing out across Crowley’s features, and then his demon _sat up_ , leaving Aziraphale feeling painfully bereft. 

“I don’t think I can,” Crowley said eventually. “Sorry. It’s too-” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale cut him off. “I didn’t mean to pry. I am sorry. Forget it.”

But the spell had been well and truly broken, and shortly afterwards Crowley left. They parted with a kiss (their _third_ kiss!), but Aziraphale could tell that his words had opened up the morning’s wounds once more. 

It was The Gap again. _‘Please mind the gap between the train and the platform’_ , the underground tannoys would announce. And he was minding it. He was minding it a great deal, and he felt like Crowley was a train, leaving without him, as he stood useless on the platform.

What to do? Somehow coaxing Crowley into digging up the pain was out of the question. But if he was to help his beloved, if he was to _understand_ him, he needed to know what had happened.

And there _had_ been one other person present…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Dante Alighieri: The Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto V, lines 28-30 and 73-87
> 
> I am certain that Crowley was good friends with Dante, and the two of them will have shared many a bottle discussing unfair banishment and the love of beings too good for this world. 
> 
> However, although Crowley might certainly have inspired Dante in some way when it came to the construction and layout of Hell, Aziraphale would have known that the whole thing was written as an allegory in many layers; and certainly the Heaven that Dante envisaged was far more incredible than the reality that Aziraphale was familiar with. So his self-assignment to the Second Circle is more poetic than literal.
> 
> 2\. Milton: Paradise Lost, Book IX, lines 952-959
> 
> 3\. This segment is 100% a homage to/inspired by [this Tumblr post](https://kelssiel.tumblr.com/post/185514967210/to-be-honest-i-dont-think-were-being-very-fair). 
> 
> _Heart’s gleam_ is a medieval term of endearment. 
> 
> _‘Inamorato’_ : a man who loves or is loved; male sweetheart or lover.  
> From dictionary.com: ‘For loves that burn bright and eternal: Inamorata.’ If the sight of your beloved inspires you to compose sonnets and gather wildflowers out of sheer uncontrollable passion, inamorata (or its masculine equivalent inamorato) might be the pet name for you. Coming from the Italian innamorare meaning “to fall in love,” this mellifluous term is for the romantics who are unafraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves.
> 
> 4\. Full line is: _“Go away from me, Lord,” he said, “for I am a sinful man.”_ Luke 5:8 (Peter speaking to Jesus after the miraculous draught of fishes on the Lake of Gennesaret.)
> 
> There are layers to this. Firstly Aziraphale’s simple wish for God to get out of his head, and his memories of Her to stop interrupting his romantic moments with Crowley. Secondly he is applying the ‘sinful’ part to himself, which is very apt since he is in love with a demon and is about to contemplate all kinds of future sinning with Crowley. Thirdly he is also acutely aware of no longer being Her follower, and surely if he has denied Her, She should leave him alone. 
> 
> 5\. [John Donne’s ‘The Good-Morrow’](https://interestingliterature.com/2016/07/a-short-analysis-of-john-donnes-the-good-morrow/) (including a brief analysis of the whole poem). The line Aziraphale quotes is part of a segment that basically says: ‘Let seafarers go off exploring the world, let us instead stay in bed and explore each other’... *raises eyebrow* 
> 
> 6\. [John Donne’s ‘The Sun Rising’](https://interestingliterature.com/2017/02/a-short-analysis-of-john-donnes-the-sun-rising/) (again, including a brief analysis). To summarise, Donne is addressing the sun as it peeps through the curtains in the morning, disturbing him and his lover as they lounge around in bed. As you can see, it _is_ all rather daring.


	9. Losing My Religion (Aziraphale)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m beginning to think that ~~Homer Simpson~~ the Almighty is not the brilliant tactician I thought ~~he~~ She was…”_  
> Adapted from [this clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yR1QL7CJltQ) from The Simpsons. Season 4, Episode 17: Last Exit To Springfield
> 
> ~
> 
> _I thought that I heard you laughing  
>  I thought that I heard you sing  
> I think I thought I saw you try_
> 
> _But that was just a dream  
>  That was just a dream_
> 
> _That's me in the corner  
>  That's me in the spotlight  
> Losing my religion_  
> R.E.M., [Losing My Religion ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwtdhWltSIg)
> 
> ~
> 
> Or:
> 
> Aziraphale has several epiphanies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 30th birthday Good Omens! <3 
> 
> Endless, endless thanks to my awesome betas for helping me to hammer this chapter into shape. Writing it was like simultaneously fighting a Hydra and knitting fog; I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I struggled writing it. That said, it _is_ a heavy chapter — this is where the two worlds collide in earnest.

Aziraphale didn’t have God’s phone number — but since She had a phone, it stood to reason that She had a phone number, and thus it should be possible to call Her. And as the Bible said:

_‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.’_

So he picked up the phone, performed a minor miracle and let faith do the rest.

He was so relieved that it actually _worked_ that he didn’t pay much attention to what She said, except for something about a new name. Well, God had lots of names (he had always been partial to The Good Shepherd), and ‘Doctor’ seemed very much along those lines. Most importantly, She said She’d be happy to help. Of course She didn’t know what the request was, but Aziraphale was willing to take the chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and so forth. 

The TARDIS helped a little, patching the connection through. After all, she (of course) immediately recognised one of her children and was great at putting calls through at the most auspicious time.

The Doctor (full of new-found determination and good intentions) declared that she could come along immediately. The angel was a little surprised (since it was near midnight), but readily agreed. This resulted in some minor confusion when the Doctor arrived, expecting it to be five minutes after she left, and was instead greeted with darkness. She blamed the TARDIS of course.

~o~

_‘This is not going behind his back, it’s just trying to **help** him.’_

Aziraphale repeated the words to himself in his head, and then looked over at the Almighty. 

She had — after walking through the door before he’d put the receiver back down — spent a good while having ‘a proper nosy’ around his bookshop, delighting in everything She saw (his bow tie got a separate compliment) and admiring his collection (She had a library of Her own and would be happy to show him, later). This had brought Aziraphale a great deal of gratification, even as he was acutely aware of putting off the inevitable. 

The lights were low, even Soho was becoming quiet, and he hoped things would be easier in this soft liminal night time than in the harsh light of day.

“Lord, I am very grateful that you came, but…” 

He cleared his throat. He had practised this, but it was still difficult. 

“I just want to start by saying that… I am with Crowley. And since he is defying you, I am too. We are on our own side, not yours. I understand if you will want to reconsider your offer, or, or, make me Fall or-”

She looked at him for one long, endless moment (Would Falling hurt? It had to. And Crowley would be so terribly disappointed, he’d _said_ not to Fall), but then She dragged a hand across Her face. 

“Look, the whole ‘sides’ thing is stupid. Can’t we just forget about ‘sides’ for a bit? Start over? So… I’m the Doctor, and what can I do for you?”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“You mean you will still help me?”

She shrugged and then leaned against the nearest bookshelf, crossing Her arms. There was a studied nonchalance to Her that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“It’s what I do. When people need help, I never refuse.”

It was possible She meant to be encouraging, but She sounded… oddly defensive, and the words gave Aziraphale pause.

Whether it was because he was now officially ‘a rebel’, and thus inclined to arguments; or whether it was simply his nature finally allowed free rein — cause and effect probably interchangeable — he felt himself bristle like Crowley had. 

_‘I never refuse’?_ His mind was immediately crowded with thousands upon thousands of humans; praying, pleading, _begging_ for help… And no help had ever come. Nothing beyond what minor miracles he had been able to sneak past Heaven.

And in the end, it had been up to him and Crowley to save the world. (The moment of the Metatron’s blank dismissal still etched on his memory, indelible. They _don’t care_. Nobody cares. No one will come to save us.) 

He met Her eyes; and slowly, slowly shook his head.

“No, Lord. You _always_ refuse. You _left_. And every prayer to you has been left unanswered.”

At his words Her face went blank and unreadable. It wasn’t the anger of that morning, but something deeper — like accidentally setting off a tripwire and a gate slamming down in front of you.

“Like I said on the phone: I’m not a god. I can’t hear people when they pray.”

He’d not really been paying attention earlier, but now the statement was impossible to ignore. He felt his brow furrow in confusion, as he lifted an apologetic hand.

“Forgive me Lord, but… When you were arguing with Crowley earlier, you declared yourself our Creator. That would imply Godhood. Either — either you were lying then, or you are lying now.”

The thought occurred to him that he had just accused God Almighty of being a liar, but — he mentally squared his shoulders — in for a penny, in for a pound! And this was too strange not to ask about.

She opened Her mouth, and hesitated. Furious thinking was happening behind Her eyes, and then She made a frustrated, annoyed noise. Not entirely unlike Warlock when he’d been told to go wash off all the mud when it was time to go back inside.

“Why’d you have to be all clever? I literally _just_ worked it all out. Because I’m _not_ a god, honest, I’m…” 

She pulled a face, and sighed.

“I’m just a traveller, really. OK, I’m a super-intelligent alien being from another universe, but creating _this_ universe wasn’t exactly planned… Oh!”

A sudden look of inspiration, and She threw Her hands around in a way that would have done Crowley proud. “Have you seen that episode of the Simpsons1 where Lisa accidentally creates a race of miniature people? And she ends up stuck in their universe and they worship her-”

Seeing the completely lost look on Aziraphale’s face, She stopped. Then attempted a smile, but whether this was to reassure Aziraphale or Herself was unclear.

“The point is — I’m _not_ a god, I just sort of became one accidentally.”

“I… think I need to sit down,” Aziraphale said, slowly, grasping for a chair and sinking into it before his legs forgot how to function. “The theological implications…”

God blinked, confusion writ large on Her features:

“The what now?”

~o~

The Doctor was intelligent; a fact pretty much anyone who had met her could attest to. The Doctor was also an expert on more subjects than she could remember. The Doctor could, at the drop of a hat (her own or someone else’s) improvise on any given topic and talk herself out of most situations.

But for someone who had once been known as ‘The Lonely God’ and who had (on many separate occasions) been accused of having a god complex, before (for all practical purposes) having become the _actual_ God of her own universe, she really wasn’t very au fait with theology. Probably due to her multiple issues with organised religion and a general refusal to believe in higher powers (except her own, such as it was).

So maybe it wasn’t surprising that she wasn’t quite following Aziraphale’s sudden crisis of belief…

~o~

Aziraphale too was intelligent. Not as intelligent as a Time Lord maybe, but he had been created with a solid store of natural angelic intelligence, and had then been privileged to live through the whole of human history, following the humans’ intellectual progress and witnessing the evolution of doctrines and creeds and religions, and could have discussed any of them in length, the way he could most subjects he had an interest in.

Of course his own faith was not based on ‘belief’ — for him God was a simple fact. He _knew_ She had created the universe; Heaven and angels and the stars in the sky. Then, after The Fall, he had witnessed how She had created Earth and humanity, at which point She had (for Her own ineffable reasons) picked him out for a main role in the Garden of Eden. 

She was The Lord God Almighty, and if She wanted to disappear for several millennia and then drop in for tea and custard creams none of that affected his faith. You could accept or reject God, but She was a fixed point, the central thing everything else was constructed around. 

Or, more accurately, the central thing who had constructed everything else around Herself.

Aziraphale’s entire being was built around this fixed structure. He could move himself _in relation to Her_ , but the idea that _She_ could move, or be other than the Foundation of Everything, was unthinkable.

He held his hands to his temples. Too many paradoxes. Too much terrifying emptiness to contemplate at the centre of his internal world. Of everything.

“Look, how about I just tell you the whole story?” God said, obviously noting his distress. “I’m a _great_ story teller!” 

Her eyes lit up: “It would be like Exclusive Behind the Scenes access…”

Aziraphale lowered his hands and folded them against his stomach, trying not to let his manicured nails dig too much into the back of his hands.

“That sounds like a _lovely_ idea,” he replied, falling back on millennia of polite (if nervous) self-preservation in the face of uncertainty and panic, the habit so ingrained that he didn’t even have to think about it.

God grabbed a chair of Her own, leaned forwards, arms resting on Her knees, then fixed him with that intense look that he still wasn’t used to, before narrowing Her eyes.

“You know, it’s all that clockwork squirrel’s fault.”

~o~

Following the tale that unfolded was not entirely unlike trying to decipher Agnes Nutter’s prophecies, except Aziraphale couldn’t take notes or do any cross-referencing, which hampered understanding somewhat. On the other hand he _could_ attempt to ask for clarification (usually when more than five words in a sentence sounded like they were made-up), which sometimes helped and sometimes didn’t.

~o~

“A… _Prydonian_ robe?” he asked, easily remembering the beautiful red-and-gold robe in question (he’d always had a weakness for Catholic vestments as they reminded him of the Almighty’s raiment) but unsure what ‘Prydonian’ might signify.

She nodded, wrinkling Her nose.

“Yeah, all my actual clothes had ended up in the swimming pool.”

He gave up.

~o~

The Almighty was also apparently incapable of sticking to the subject, constantly interspersing Her tale with random anecdotes and casual observations which left Aziraphale struggling to keep any sort of grasp of the narrative, but which were illuminating in other ways.

If Her aim had been to convince him She was less than he thought, She failed. She threw in casual asides alluding to truly God-like feats and undertakings with a nonchalance that was breathtaking: of stepping from world to world as casually as he would step from one room to another; of stars born and planets destroyed; of wars spanning galaxies and countless millennia — and of time as if it were a ball of yarn She could knit into any pattern She saw fit.

Having never really considered what Gods did on a day-to-day basis he was filled with awe and wonder.

But he had been prepared for that. What he _hadn’t_ been prepared for was all the rest…

~o~

“Speaking of Pirates — not God-like ones like The Eternals, but proper pirates — there was this time with a mermaid, no hang on… _a siren_ , who was actually a doctor… Like an AI from a spaceship I think? It’s a long time ago. Was that — _no_. Definitely Amy and Rory. And black spots, all _very_ superstitious. _Fab_ outfits though. I should get a pirate hat. Hmm. Bet I’d look great in a pirate hat…”

Her eyes lit up at the thought and She looked at him with an expression he was beginning to get familiar with, as She practically clapped in excitement.

“Could you miracle me one?”

And Aziraphale sighed deeply and miracled a pirate hat for the Almighty. 

She put it on, checking Her reflection in the windows as She preened happily, whilst the angel (in vain) tried to work out what pirates had to do with the creation of the universe.

~o~

He discovered many things as the night went on. Including the fact that God had friends and enemies.

The angel quickly began to suspect that God’s associates adhered to the naming conventions of Russian novels, where every character (at the very minimum) had a proper name, a nickname, and a title, and you quite simply had to remember them all, as the text rarely bothered being helpful.

~o~

“So, you mentioned this… _Nethersphere_?”

(They had meandered through the creation of the universe — which seemed to boil down to ‘There was an explosion in my spaceship and then there was a new universe’ — and had by now arrived at how She had come up with ‘Heaven’.)

“Ah yes! Matrix data slice, Missy — my ‘best enemy’, I think I mentioned her before? — stole it…” 

She did the strange self-censoring thing (again), where She’d cut off mid-sentence, and then carry on, the missing part of the sentence never filled in. 

“Bigger on the inside and full of rooms already. Perfect place to stash a new race — _potential_ new race I should say, didn’t know what you’d be yet — while working out what to do with you.”

“This Missy-” he tried again, because he was curious at Her description. “You mentioned a ‘best enemy’ before, but it was someone called ‘The Master’…” 

_‘Childhood friend’_ , She’d said earlier. He was hoping She’d accidentally give away more information.

“Hm?” She said, then seemed to catch his drift.

“Oh. Same person. He was a woman for a while. Called herself Missy. Had this whole ‘evil Mary Poppins look’ going on, but with a Scottish accent.”

God paused, and shot Aziraphale a conspiratorial look.

“Just between the two of us, it _was_ quite sexy. I know, I know, I shouldn’t find that hot, but I kinda did anyway?”

“Indeed?” Aziraphale replied, trying to appear unaffected. He was rather desperately hoping that She couldn’t read minds. Although this would teach him to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

~o~

“Have you been to Norway? _Love_ Norway. Nice trees. Good soil. Very tasty.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of the end of the sentence so focussed on the beginning, hoping it’d be relevant.

“I have been to Norway, yes.”

“The fjords are brilliant, aren’t they? Gave the angel who worked on them an award, which I called the ‘Slartibartfast Award’. They didn’t get the joke of course, but they were quite pleased anyway.”

She grinned, and Aziraphale smiled back politely. He didn’t get the joke either, but had by now given up all hope that things would make sense.

~o~

The angel wasn’t sure how many tangents they’d been down, but surely She would eventually get to the point?

“So this ‘Nethersphere’ was in your… TARDIS you said?”

“M-hm. It’s only the size of a large beach ball. ‘Bout… this big?”

She held out Her arms, and Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“All of Heaven and Hell are… _that_ small, in relative terms?”

She tilted Her head, puzzled.

“You know you aren’t bound by size? You can make yourselves smaller than atoms?”

“Yes of course, but I suppose I — I had never really thought about it before.”

Having all the fundamentals of your life turned upside down and inside out was a rather strange experience.

~o~

At one point She referred to Her ‘fam’ and (pleased) he asked if this would be Her family… She had mentioned coming from a whole race of God-like beings (well, She’d said She was an alien from a very advanced civilisation, but he could easily read between the lines), so it stood to reason that She would have family. The theological implications of _this_ were also interesting, and he was keen to know more. He had always been monotheistic, but since this was (apparently) due to insufficient data he was quite happy to widen his understanding and his creed.

However, She explained that her ‘fam’ were Her friends, which led him to enquire if She had an actual family. Her response was so curt that he almost flinched. He knew loss when he saw it, and filed it away in his ever expanding mental folder on _Unexpected Notes on God_.

~o~

“I should write a book.” She looked around the shop. “I could write _brilliant_ books. And I’ve met _loads_ of authors. Went ghost hunting with Charles Dickens once. At Christmas!… And solved a murder mystery with Agatha Christie.”

Aziraphale, pleased, was about to weigh in with some of _his_ favourite authors, except She carried on talking.

“Or maybe poetry? I’ll have to find the songs of the Ice Warriors for you at some point. Stunningly beautiful. Could have made Lucifer weep, I’m sure.”

“Sorry, the… ‘Ice Warriors’ you said?”

“Martians! Back in my universe. Lizard race, you don’t have ‘em here. Probably for the best. Very violent. But _great_ poets.”

~o~

After several hours God declared Herself in need of something warm, so he miracled up hot chocolate and a minor selection of biscuits (including those with pink icing). But not even munching on hobnobs could stop Her talking. (Aziraphale had never met anyone that wordy. Which was saying something.)

“Then, well, I needed something to stop everyone being fixated on fighting.”

Hands around his own mug, he looked up at Her:

“Is _that_ why you created Earth?”

She did a shrug that might be interpreted as nonchalant.

“Yeah?”

“For… _us_?”

She nodded. 

He took a moment to file this fact away also.

“But The Great Plan? How does that fit into anything?”

There was a sudden gleam in Her eye, something on the cusp of being mischievous.

“Would you like to see it?” She asked, and he nodded, uncertain. What could She mean?

Shoving the rest of the biscuit in Her mouth She reached into one of Her pockets and brought out a book (as well as some string, a pair of mittens, a snow globe from Vancouver Aquarium, and a small, flat, garishly decorated rectangular box that proclaimed itself to contain an inflatable unicorn horn for cats). The book was white leather, Aziraphale noticed, with gold embossed lettering, and a great number of colourful bits of paper poking out.

“Here you go!” She said, handing the book over with a flourish. “Although be careful with it, I borrowed it off a friend.”

He couldn’t help sending Her an affronted look (‘be careful’, now _really_ , whose bookshop did She think She’d been sitting in…), and then turned his attention to the book itself.

It had a sticky note on the front saying ‘Great Plan’ with a smiley face drawn underneath. He frowned as he opened it, noting that it was in used but very good condition (nice paper, lovely illustrations), and then slowly paged through it, revealing story after familiar story. The sticky notes had dates and/or historical events scribbled on, as well as random observations that he now recognised as quintessential ‘God being God’.

The illustrations were a whole other issue. All of them were accurate in every detail, so his memory told him, like tracings of photographs. 

“It’s… a Children’s Bible,” he said eventually, feeling rather foolish at stating something so obvious, “with historical footnotes inserted.”

Was it some kind of joke? (Whether divine or alien, She was most certainly ineffable.)

“Yes. Yes it is. And you are the _only_ angel who understands that, apparently.”

“I’m afraid I really _don’t_ understand,” he said simply.

It is one thing to intellectually grasp a thing, to mentally accept how things must be. It’s something entirely different to be faced with physical, tangible proof.

“Like I said, I was wondering what to do with you all, saw _that_ on my friend Graham’s bookshelf and inspiration struck! Had a fun afternoon puzzling it all out. Basically based the whole thing on ‘original Earth’ back where I’m from — figured a little shortcut wouldn’t hurt, cos of having all the blueprints already and that, and I know Earth history back to front and inside out. Must’ve put it on my desk and… forgot about it? Graham’s been very good not asking for it back, but I’ll try to remember now.”

He had to take a moment. His whole life. His _whole life_ he had been adhering to ‘The Great Plan’. The Thing You Were Not Allowed To Question, EVER.

And it had been a Children’s Bible all along, with little footnotes. So painfully simplistic that he could have constructed it himself in less than half an hour, give or take. 

But as he struggled to accept that it really was _that simple_ , he looked up at the Almighty (currently wearing a fez, the latest head-gear she had requested, and trying to balance a biscuit on Her nose) and the night’s events began lining up in a new pattern. 

What had seemed utterly preposterous revealed itself to be like Schrödinger’s Cat — two seeming opposites that shouldn’t be able to co-exist, and yet did: 

The Almighty was truly magnificent, and powerful beyond what he had ever envisaged. But She was _also_ an idiot.

And accepting _both_ , instantly meant that the whole world made sense.

The impossible feats, and the idiotic bureaucracy. The great vision, and the stupid last minute fixes. The joy and wonder, and the terror of The Fall. The grandeur of human history, and the complete ridiculousness of The Great Plan.

It also explained why two idiots like himself and Crowley could successfully save the world. 

Because the ones they ‘defeated’ were stupider still….

~o~

“Apologies. Just to be clear: Are you telling me, that this — _this_ -” he held up the Children’s Bible, “-is what Heaven and Hell were following? _This_ is why they were going to destroy the world?”

“Just a second,” She said, “this one’s tricky…”

She had used the string from Her pocket to construct a cat’s cradle, which She was now playing by Herself. The contraption was spider-web-like in its intricacy and She was biting Her lip, concentrating. 

Having turned the spider-web into an upside-down spider-web She beamed at him, proudly.

“Still got it!”

He just _looked_ at Her, whilst still holding up the Children’s Bible, and She caught his drift.

“Oh. Yeah. It would seem they took it all… _way too literally_ I’m afraid. Which, like I said before, is why they’re all now on that asteroid so they can have a good think about what _exactly_ their brains are for.”

Aziraphale felt very tired all of a sudden. He had spent _actual millennia_ being told that his superiors Knew Best, that they understood how Things Ought To be, that he shouldn’t question their wisdom and knowledge… 

And sure, he had come to realise that Heaven’s leadership were _bad angels_ — but never had he imagined that they were such complete and utter fools. ‘Lions led by Donkeys’2 flashed through his mind, and he smiled mirthlessly. Even human leaders were not such imbeciles. Lying, opportunistic, deceitful, narcissistic, self-serving… All of that and more, but not stupid enough to follow a children’s book as their primary guide. 

Of course there was nothing wrong with children’s books in and of themselves. If he could have had his way, Winnie the Pooh would be the primary guide of life everywhere. 

Not that Heaven knew of Winnie the Pooh. Heaven knew _nothing_ of books, full stop.

He vividly remembered Gabriel and Sandalphon, just a few weeks ago, standing in the middle of his shop with _Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management_ and talking loudly about pornography. Dismissing all his wonderful books through the blindness of ignorance. Six thousand years, and they had never bothered to learn anything, or think for themselves. Blind faith, literally. 

And with a jolt he suddenly became aware of the glaring empty space that he had never noticed before. 

Heaven had no theology. Heaven didn’t even understand the _concept_ of theology. 

(The staggering difference between a simply-worded Children’s Bible and, say, Luther’s divisive _Ninety-five Theses_ or the complex contemplations of _The Mystic Ladder of Divine Love_ by St. John of the Cross would be completely lost on them. Not to mention the delights of Jewish midrash or the richness of the Buddhist _Wheel of Life_ or… his mind almost tripped over itself, the examples were literally endless.)

But it was worse than that. Not only did they not understand theology. Or how books worked. They didn’t understand _anything_.

He tried to imagine the past six millennia without a single new story or book. Without music, without science or theology or philosophy or spring mornings or winter storms, without warm fires in tiny huts on cold nights, or the delight of a jar full of wine and the promise of an evening’s stimulating conversation or an exciting new show. Without _humans_ , in short, being creative and incredible.

The sudden terror was almost indescribable. 

And in that context… he found himself _pitying_ them. How empty and meaningless their lives must have been, whilst he had lived in a world of unparalleled riches and found love that they could never dream of.

(He didn’t _forgive_ them. Oh no. But he could pity them.)

“What will you do with them?” he asked eventually. 

But God (who apparently had the attention span of a gnat) was now playing some sort of noisy and annoying game on her phone. Unfortunately he couldn’t just stop the phone working (the way he usually did when customers dared to use them in the shop) instead having to wait for Her to finish whatever objective She was pursuing. 

After a few minutes She threw Her arms out in victory (“Yes! All your base are belong to me!”) and he managed to catch Her attention.

“Will you… make them Fall?” 

Falling seemed the logical punishment, although surely that would just make them worse? And those already in Hell couldn’t Fall further.

But God shook Her head, eyes now dancing with secrets as She (to his everlasting relief) put the phone back in Her pocket.

“Oh no. I’ve got something _much_ better. Would you like to hear about The Ineffable Plan?”

~o~

The most surprising thing about The Ineffable Plan was how, well, _effable_ it was. Simple, straightforward and logical, and Aziraphale was delighted. Best of all, it might actually work! Oh how he wished Crowley was there with him to hear it, he’d be so _pleased_ …

And then it struck him: _Crowley_! The whole reason he had instigated this meeting in the first place — and instead of doing what he’d set out to, he’d just hobnobbed with the Almighty and forgotten all about his beloved.

Once he’d made sure to register his approval of The Ineffable Plan, he cleared his throat.

“Apologies, Lord-”

“Doctor,” She corrected.

“Lord Doctor-”

“No. Just Doctor. ‘Lord Doctor’ is like… like if I called you ‘Principality Aziraphale’. I don’t like formality.”

He acquiesced, knowing that to get Her help he’d need to be on Her good side, and he was beginning to get an idea as to what She liked.

“Well, the reason I asked you to come was — was because of Crowley… He… is… hurting. Because of his Fall, now he remembers, but he doesn’t want to talk about it, and so I thought, that, well, you were there, what with, um, being the one who made him Fall, so maybe you could tell me what happened and make it easier for me to help him. Without him having to get upset, talking about it.”

Aziraphale, not realising he'd poked the one spot the Doctor would, under no circumstances, be open to discussing, observed her features snap shut like a hermit crab retreating to its shell3.

(She hadn’t talked about The Fall at all. Merely said ‘Well, you were there’ and skipped straight to Earth’s creation.)

Then She folded Her arms, face oddly cold and distant — looking like a stranger (a Remote God who never heard a single prayer), not someone who had just spent hours goofing around and sharing endless daft stories (as well as some actual information, albeit well hidden within the haphazard tales). 

“He made his choice.”

Aziraphale knew nothing of what was going on in the Almighty’s head, or why — all he knew was that his request for help had been rebuffed. 

The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. 

He swallowed against the almost physical pain of the disappointment. He had been ready for this earlier on, but _now_? She’d been so friendly and agreeable, so _why_ …

“But you said that — that sides were a _foolish_ thing. That you would help…”

She shook Her head, Her expression unchanged. (Shutters down, trespassers will be unceremoniously kicked out.)

“Nothing to do with me. _He_ chose not to be on ‘my side’. As you saw this morning.”

She glanced at the windows, where the first light of dawn was beginning to brighten the sky far above the city.

“Yesterday morning. Whatever. Point is — he rebelled. The rest… is private.”

The angel nodded, disillusionment settling in wholesale.

At least he understood now.

_(“We’re on our **own** side!”)_

He also knew She was wrong — it wasn’t really ‘making a choice’ so much as suddenly finding staying impossible. This was what Crowley had tried to explain to him, the reason his demon had been so frustrated. Maybe one couldn’t really understand it properly unless one had experienced it personally?

Because (and this was another source of pain) there was no theology here — just the knowledge that God was not only fallible, but prone to secrecy, evasion and defensiveness. 

(He’d renounced Her for Crowley’s sake already. But this time, it was personal.)

“I see,” he replied, resignedly, but with a bit of an edge. “In that case I don’t suppose we have much else to say to one another.”

(The hermit crab eyed him up from inside her shell, and realised that the environment had become permanently hostile. This wasn’t the outcome she had hoped for either.)

“I don’t suppose we do,” She replied, then got to Her feet, the sudden briskness jarring. 

“Well, guess I better be off then. You know how it is — Antichrists to visit, Heaven and Hell to overhaul, Sound of Music singalongs to organise. Busy day ahead.”

He tried to smile, but his mouth wouldn’t really work.

Instead he got up too, handed over The Great Plan, then miracled all Her hats into a pile.

“Good day, madam,” he said, as calmly and coldly polite as he could manage, holding them out.

The Almighty took the hats, walked to the door and opened it — then paused and half turned, making Aziraphale freeze where he stood.

“Why did you lie to me about the sword?”

It was only Aziraphale’s good fortune of not having a human corporation that saved him from having a triple heart attack on the spot. He stuttered as he answered, unable to offer anything except naked, panicked honesty.

“I, I, I was scared that you would be angry… That I had done the wrong thing...”

She studied him for what seemed like an eternity, then pursed Her lips speculatively.

“Hmm. Okay, fair ‘nuff, guess that makes sense.” 

A beat, then She nodded, as if to Herself. 

“Well, that’s it then. Have a good life Aziraphale, Rebel Angel of the Eastern Gate.”

And with that She left.

Aziraphale, practically shaking from sudden terror and adrenaline, slowly made his way to the sofa and sank down, trying to tell his nerves — which had been on high alert all night, and were now standing on end, vibrating — that they could calm down now. (The nerves weren’t quite sure about this, continually popping up like meerkats to scan for new dangers.)

What a strange, extraordinary, impossible 24 hours it had been. From a kiss to apostasy, and the two inextricably linked — topped with (literally) Holy Terror. He felt like he needed a holiday.

He took a deep, unsteady breath — and realised that a holiday might be just the thing. Especially since his clever idea to help Crowley had been well and truly thwarted. 

The angel, worriedly, began wondering how his poor demon was holding up… (Not to mention his plants.)

Yes, they needed to get away! That _was_ a good idea. Eager to implement his new plan and put the unsettling night behind him, he immediately jumped to his feet.

He should, of course, have known better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Lisa accidentally becomes god: Treehouse of Horror VII: The Genesis Tub. The analogy is actually [quite accurate](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/elisi/4713981/561737/561737_original.gif).
> 
> 2\. "Lions led by donkeys" is a phrase used to describe the British infantry of the First World War and to blame the generals who led them. The contention is that the brave soldiers (lions) were sent to their deaths by incompetent and indifferent leaders (donkeys). It seemed the sort of analogy that Aziraphale’s mind would leap to. These days the phrase is more likely to make people think of [‘Led By Donkeys’](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Led_By_Donkeys), a British anti-Brexit political campaign group which uses satire targeted at pro-Brexit politicians.
> 
> 3\. [Hermit crab retreating](https://www.shutterstock.com/video/clip-11132042-hermit-crab-retreats-into-shell)


	10. Losing My Religion (Crowley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every whisper  
>  Of every waking hour  
> I'm choosing my confessions  
> Trying to keep an eye on you  
> Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool_  
> R.E.M., Losing My Religion
> 
> ~
> 
> _A vow unto his own,  
>  That never from this day  
> His will they'll take away._
> 
>  _You labelled me,  
>  I'll label you.  
> So I dub thee unforgiven._  
> Metallica, The Unforgiven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Promethia. And also largely _by_ Promethia, since she laid out the beats of this delve into Crowley’s mind. ♥
> 
> Final part of the triptych. ( _All the King’s horses and all the King’s men could never put God together again_ …) This is basically Crowley’s Dark Night of the Soul. Suffice it to say that back when I first watched _Good Omens_ I never envisaged writing something like this, and certainly not with Metallica as the soundtrack.
> 
> (Also sorry about the long gap, however I have drafts of the next few chapters!)

Once upon a time in London town there was a plant collection. The plants were huge and green and glorious, with shiny, healthy, lustrous leaves.

They belonged to a demon.

If Gardeners’ Question Time had asked the demon for any gardening tips, he would have shrugged and said it was all about discipline. Since the Radio 4 audience is — on the whole — not in the habit of making their plants grow through fear and intimidation (much preferring sensible and sage advice about compost and pruning) it’s doubtful many would have tried it, and it’s even more unlikely that any would have succeeded.

A more interesting interview would have featured the plants themselves, if such a thing were possible… 

The main problem being that any interview would probably have consisted mostly of a terrified rustling of leaves, considering that for most of their lives the plants had known only fear, growing out of sheer self-preservation.

But lately a change had occurred, unprecedented in the plants’ very limited experience.

There had been an evening when there had been a _different_ presence in the flat. It had enveloped the plants in nurturing love and delight, and they had positively basked as the stranger had fawned over them and declared them to be ‘Quite simply magnificent, dear boy!’ 

Since then, they would have explained to the interviewer, their regular keeper had been oddly… subdued. They could still feel the anger, and sometimes he’d hiss or utter one of his usual threats, but there had been no ‘examples’ made of any of them since. The plants didn’t quite know what to make of this.

This evening, however, they sensed the fury and frustration the instant their demon entered the flat. A black cloud that seemed to smother everything within the dark walls.

And, although the demon walked straight past them, the plants merely waited, steeling themselves for the inevitable explosion. This wasn’t their first rodeo, and they knew full well that those emotions would, sooner or later, be turned on them. They didn’t know _why_ they had been singled out as receptacles for the demon’s ire, but they had learned to accept it. So they all concentrated fervently on looking their best — a Day of Reckoning was coming, and no mistake.

The plants did not have a pleasant night. 

And in that, they mirrored their owner.

~o~

Crowley spent the drive home swearing at himself.

Everything had been perfect — more perfect than he had ever dared hope for — and then he’d gone and opened his stupid mouth. He growled, grasping the steering wheel. Yes it had been a long day, and he felt wrung out by the whole thing, but why had he needed to _say_ it? Great job ruining everything. All he could see when he closed his eyes was Aziraphale’s disappointment…

_‘You’re going already?’_

It was all God’s fault! Barging in and upsetting everything. She hadn’t been on the itinerary, She was the _last_ thing he wanted to think about, and yet there She was, like a burr, impossible to get rid of. He shook his head. And then the angel had asked if he wanted to _talk_ about it. What was there to talk about? He was _fine_ , they were _both_ fine, _everything was fine_ , God had seen Herself out when She’d finally worked out She wasn’t welcome, what else was there to say? It was abundantly clear that She had never heard a single word he'd raged at the heavens over the years. Not that he was about to tell his angel about any of that — and it didn’t matter anyway, did it? The whole thing was history now, and they were on their Own Side. Done.

Except he’d still fucked it up, leaving like he had. And Aziraphale had looked so _worried_. Much like how he’d looked earlier on when Crowley had sent the Almighty packing… He sighed through gritted teeth (quite an accomplishment, and a feat not to be attempted by humans), and parked up with a screech of the brakes.

_(It's fine, angel, I've only been bitter about it since before the start of time. It's not gonna kill me now.)_

No, it wasn’t going to kill anyone or anything — the only casualty had been their cosy evening. 

Cue more swearing at himself, although with several well-chosen epithets for the Almighty thrown in for good measure.

His flat was austere and dark and he headed straight for his bedroom. Sleep was the answer, surely. And he _was_ tired. Give his brain a rest, set everything to stand-by and hopefully tomorrow morning things would… He wasn’t quite sure what, something about a new start.

The idea might have been sound, however the reality was not as satisfying as he had hoped.

He spent a long while lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Then another long while lying on the ceiling, staring at the bed. 

He tried crawling into a corner, but that didn’t help either. 

Counting sheep (always a pointless exercise), became even more pointless as he found himself killing them in ever more inventive ways. And they all seemed to have the Almighty’s face… 

Why the Heaven did humans think this helped? Sheep weren’t soothing at the best of times. They were stupid and noisy and smelly and _terrible_ at jumping over tall structures. One of the express _bonuses_ of modern living was the absence of sheep in his life, living or dead or slaughtered. (Hold it still, thrust the knife into the jugular vein _just so_ , making sure the blood gushes out in a steady stream into the bucket on the floor. Then string up the carcass, fleece it, let the kids help with the smaller parts — they’re useful helpers with their chubby hands and stubby knives, pleased at how well they’ve fattened their lambs and cheerful at the prospect of a full larder for winter…)

He pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes — he did not want to spend the night after the best day of his life killing bloody sheep (even if it was only in his mind). Why couldn’t he be _happy_? Why couldn’t he just look back on the day and appreciate all the joy it had held — kisses and mutual declarations of love and quoting Donne… _Donne_! He’d almost staggered where he stood — Aziraphale might not have intended the allusion, but Crowley’s follow-up had proved that even if not a conscious choice, the ideas had not been that far from the angel’s mind… Crowley felt dizzy with the possibilities, with choices and hopes that had seemed castles in the air only a scant few weeks ago, and now…

Except into the midst of all this the Almighty had popped up, as bubbly and breezy as if She’d just nipped to the shops for some fresh teabags and hadn’t vanished for 6 millennia, leaving untold death and destruction in Her wake.

Once more the anger bubbled up — _why couldn’t he let it go_? He’d left Heaven behind so very, very long ago, why did it still have a hold over him? He wanted to think about his angel, not about the self-righteous hypocrite who felt that somehow She Knew Best.

(If he’d been able to evaluate himself critically he might have realised that his anger was threefold — he was angry at _himself_ for spoiling the end of a perfect day, angry with _God_ for interrupting said perfect day, and, above everything, angry _because he was angry_. It was not a good combination for attempting sleep.)

 _‘Do you… want to talk about it?’_ he could still hear Aziraphale asking, and _no_ , no he didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to _think_ about it — the only thing he _wanted_ to think about was his wonderful angel. And the possessive was correct — Aziraphale truly was _his_. Crowley’s heart twisted at the immense gift of love that had fallen into his lap, at how the angel had thrown himself into apostasy without a second thought (having no _concept_ of what this meant) all for Crowley’s sake. How was any of it even real? The way he would light up at the mere _sight_ of Crowley, the softness of him — angels shouldn’t be that snuggly, surely there was a mistake somewhere, you shouldn’t be able to lose yourself in a kiss like falling into a fluffy cloud of adoration, of concern, of _‘Do you… want to talk about it?’_

With a groan he let his head fall against the wall.

What good would talking do anyway? God clearly hadn’t changed, waltzing in like She owned the place, expecting everything to somehow be _fine_. As _if_ , Crowley thought derisively. ‘Sorry my finger slipped’ (and _there_ was a lie, and no mistake), ‘here let me make you an angel again, that’ll magically solve everything won’t it?’

Couldn’t She hear Herself? The absolute insult of it? Literally _petting_ him, Her favourite little demon… The bile rose once again, the absolute suffocating fury that was impossible to escape. 

Why couldn’t he let it go? She’d _left_ , but still the anger raged inside like an uncontrollable storm. He’d tried to tamp it down, but any careless movement and it flared up again.

Aziraphale’s face… _‘You’re going already?’_ The disappointment vivid, until he’d covered it up. 

_(Angel, why can’t you see, I can’t inflict this on you, I can’t deal with your sympathy on top of everything else… And the anger is choking me; it is a vile, furious, vicious thing, don’t you **dare** to feel sorry for me.)_

He made his way back down to the bed, sitting himself with his back against the headboard staring into the darkness. Sleep was clearly not going to happen, and the anger wasn’t going to go away. He made a frustrated noise which no alphabet in the world would have been able to note down adequately.

How _dare_ She? 

How dare She show up like that, how dare She pretend everything was hunky-dory, how dare She offer to _forgive him_ , how dare She any and all of it? Worst was that it was so perfectly _Her_ , wasn’t it? Overriding anything She disagreed with just to make Herself feel less guilty. She’d probably just say it was ‘ineffable’.

 _Ineffable._

How he hated that word. Stopped any discussion, any enquiry, any kind of investigation dead in its tracks. It’s _ineffable_. Adam and Eve thrown out of Eden over simple curiosity? It’s ineffable. Thousands drowned in the Flood? It’s ineffable. The crucifixion of an innocent man? It’s ineffable. War, death, hunger, pestilence, wanton destruction… it was all ‘ineffable’. 

Ah, if only you could see things the way _She_ does, you would understand — but you _can’t_ , because it’s ineffable. He snarled in frustration. How often had he done this? This hammering away at questions whose answers were shrouded in mystery? 

At least Satan was straightforward in his goals — no attempts at coyness there. But question the Almighty, get a glimpse of truth, and _that_ will cost you.

He let his head fall back against the headboard. The problem was… the problem was that everyone thought that ‘ineffable’ was synonymous with ‘infallible’. 

He blinked, slowly, and turned the thought over. 

She wasn’t infallible. He knew this. He had _experienced_ this, the strange void in his memory now filled with hard, ugly and irrefutable deeds. What She had done to him was wrong, plain and simple. He _knew_ that. (A sad look, a whispered ‘I’m so sorry Red’, and then fingertips to his temples and _nothing_ …) She had violated him on a level that made him feel sick at the thought of it, worse than anything Hell had ever been able to think up: an obliteration of agency, of choice, of _self_. And all just to save Herself. Worse: to save Her _position_.

God _had been_ — God _could_ be — empirically wrong. 

Which meant that the whole ineffability issue was a smokescreen and the Emperor had no clothes…

And there it was (the impact like a blow across the sternum): _The Truth_. Naked, unvarnished, unavoidable _Truth_. 

All this time, all these endless ages asking questions, searching for an answer, and now he had found it.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. Maybe one he had been holding for six thousand years. 

_God was fallible_ — and lo, She had fucked up royally. 

His expression hardened (every fallen angel, every dead child, everything done in your name). _Unforgivable_ ; that’s what She was.

But _he_ , he was _whole_. (Finally, again.) And the world was of a piece; from the top down, it made sense now. 

For a long time he sat completely motionless, staring into nothing, reality rearranging itself around him. Like watching a circle of dominoes fall, out and out, an endless wave reaching beyond the horizon. And yet as serene and still as a Japanese garden of contemplation.

Eventually, after daylight began filtering into the flat, he moved. With perfect calm he got up, got dressed, and went to tend to his plants. He wouldn’t say he’d _neglected_ them recently, but he’d certainly been distracted by other things.

For a while he stood still, plant mister loosely dangling from a finger as the plants trembled before him — was it his imagination or were they looking extra shiny and lustrous today? Then he shrugged and started his usual routine of spraying them nicely and evenly. If only they knew how good they had it… 

He stopped and tilted his head. 

He had a sudden, nagging suspicion that maybe the plant that he’d carelessly shoved behind some of the taller ones might need more light? It didn’t seem to grow as it should, and he had an inkling that plants needed light as well as water.

He shifted it into the pale morning sunshine, and then picked up one of the others (always bone dry, and had been on his naughty list for a while now because of it) and moved it into the shade.

After briefly stepping back to get an overview — yes, everything still looked neat — he began removing any dead leaves. There weren’t many (his plants knew his feelings on littering), but the task brought to light a cowering specimen which was developing that most dreaded affliction — a leaf spot. It tried to shrink from sight, shaking in terror, certain that its doom was now upon it. He looked at it for a moment, then sighed in annoyance and with barely a thought miracled it better. 

Then the doorbell rang, and (wondering who could possibly be calling this early) he left the plants to answer the door. 

The plants for their part were more confused than ever, and the one that had been restored fainted in shock. If they had been capable of articulating a response, they might have described the whole incident as ‘ineffable’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) All sheep-related information comes from first-hand experience. (I haven’t slaughtered sheep, but I have seen it done. I have also helped bottle feed lambs, which is a very delightful task. But overall, sheep are very _very_ stupid.)
> 
> 2) A note on gardener!Crowley: Writing this chapter, I realised that competent!knowledgeable!gardener!Crowley is a fannish invention. Now, it’s an _excellent_ invention, and I love it, but this is what the book has to say on his gardening skills (the show goes with the book basically word-for-word):
> 
> _Once a week, Crowley went around the flat with a green plastic plant mister, spraying the leaves, and talking to the plants._
> 
> That’s IT. The joke is obviously that despite this the plants thrive — much like the sound system plays without any speakers and the fridge keeps the food cold without being plugged in, except in the plants’ case they have more of an active input and grow through pure fear.
> 
> Anyway, I decided to buckle fannish convention and let Crowley know nothing about gardening beyond what he does in canon, because it suited my purposes perfectly. :)


	11. On Our Own Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You do not have to be good.  
>  You do not have to walk on your knees  
> for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
> You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
> love what it loves._  
> Mary Oliver: Wild Geese
> 
> _We shall not cease from exploration  
>  And the end of all our exploring  
> Will be to arrive where we started  
> And know the place for the first time_  
> T.S. Eliot: Little Gidding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of emotions in this chapter.
> 
> It is the morning after the night before and there is a lot to process. This started out as a short, romantic interlude — except then it just… _grew_. Very much for the better, but this one was a perfect example of Promethia being ‘my Terry’ and properly collaborative writing, constantly adding and refining and ‘Wait, maybe we could…’ (Also she made it at least 17% funnier. Probably more like 50%.) 
> 
> I hope it helps anyone who needs a break from *waves hands towards general world situation*.

In the roughly sixty seconds between pressing the doorbell and Crowley opening the door, Aziraphale almost had a complete nervous breakdown.

Taking a shaky breath, he did his best not to crush the pastry box in his hands. _(Don’t think about last night don’t think about last night don’t think about last night…)_ Was it possible to keep it a secret? He didn’t want to _lie_ to Crowley about his little visit with the Almighty. But neither did he want to upset him. Aziraphale had only wanted to help, but here in the cold morning light he could far too easily see how his actions could be construed as betrayal.

Why was he so _stupid_? Why hadn’t he been able to see through the Almighty before? Why-

There were far too many ‘Whys’ and he didn’t like any of them. 

It was too early.

Why had he come so early?

It was all well and good rushing off on a wing and a prayer, except now he was _here_ and what had he been _thinking_ showing up this early?

Crowley was probably still asleep.

And now Aziraphale might have woken him up.

Why hadn’t he called ahead?

He had never done this before. Never just shown up at Crowley’s door.

Crowley had kindly let him stay after his bookshop burned down, but those had been very specific circumstances. There was nothing to say that Crowley wanted him to appear out of the blue, unannounced, like this.

Especially since Crowley had left last night because he wanted some peace and quiet, and now Aziraphale was probably going to ruin it.

Of course he had brought a nice breakfast with him, but that Crowley cared a whit about food himself was… probably a pretense he should consider discarding. Tomorrow. Definitely maybe.

It was a feeble excuse anyway.

There was no rush, really. He could have talked to Crowley about a holiday any time. Just because he himself felt an urgent need to get away…

And then Crowley opened the door.

Aziraphale took a few seconds to gather himself.

Crowley was clearly already up and awake (and the angel was grateful for that small mercy) — he was dressed in a tight-fitting dark grey top and his usual skinny jeans. His feet were bare ( _oh_ , Aziraphale thought, breath catching. It shouldn’t feel so intimate, and yet…) and he had a plant mister in his hand. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. He looked at Aziraphale with clear surprise.

_‘We kissed’_ , Aziraphale thought. _‘Yesterday. Three times. It feels unreal. I declared my love for you, and you reciprocated. We are an angel and a demon and we are in love…’_

He felt suddenly dizzy.

No poetry or winged words were crowding his mind — there was just a feeling like the air had been sucked from his lungs. Being in love can be overwhelming and confusing for your average human. One might have expected an angel to be better prepared, but Aziraphale didn’t feel prepared. He had spent so long being in control — well, for nominal definitions of the word 'control' (oh, _hush_ ) — that this abrupt wildfire that was tearing through him with no end in sight was quite unsettling. It was exactly like all the poets had said, which had so far been reassuring, but — he now realised— was also rather terrifying. To be fair, the poets had mentioned that too…

And now he had all these _additional_ feelings of worry and concern. It was as if the pastry box he held had a huge and towering pile of carefully balanced items stacked on top of it, and if he made a wrong move the whole thing would come tumbling down.

“Good morning, _mon chou_ ”1, he said holding up his box of sweet pretense and congratulating himself on his little pun. He did his angelic best to radiate love and affection (whilst burying any other emotions. He was rather good at burying emotions. He could do this; he had trained for it his whole life). “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by so early? But breakfast is such a _lovely_ meal, isn’t it?”

Crowley blinked, nonplussed.

Aziraphale bustled past Crowley into the flat, still talking even as he looked around at the severe surroundings. He’d forgotten just how _dark_ and _austere_ everything was. Yes, he needed to get his beautiful demon away from this and out into the light.

“And of course I also wanted to check to see how you were doing. How _are_ you?”

The angel stopped and turned, laying his hand on Crowley’s arm and searching his face. (And oh, his _eyes_. He always felt a thrill at the eyes when they were uncovered.) This was good, yes. He was here because he was concerned. No other motivations. Besides, he _was_ genuinely concerned, and now — having a better idea of what his demon had put up with — he was better equipped to help. (Yes, this was all good! Maybe the night’s activities hadn’t been a dreadful mistake after all.) (He still wasn’t telling Crowley.)

Crowley seemed unsure what to do with the question. Not evasive, just… puzzled.

“I’m… good?” he answered, then winced. “Not _good_ good, I’m — I’m _fine_.”

The angel attempted a smile, nervousness tinting the concern.

“I was just thinking about yesterday and the _confrontation_ and what She did…”

Crowley’s face turned gentle, as he lifted Aziraphale’s hand from his arm and dropped a light kiss on it.

“Angel. I’m fine, _honest_. You can stop worrying.”

Between the softness of Crowley’s expression and the overtly romantic gesture, Aziraphale was ready to melt into a puddle on the floor. He also had a strong impulse to reward the statement with a very searching look, as if he could somehow see beneath the surface — but as he couldn’t force Crowley to talk (and oh, that had been the reason behind the inviting-the-Almighty-around fiasco in the first place, _lesson learned_ ), he instead squeezed Crowley’s hand as if in acceptance and then took himself off to the kitchen to make tea, chatting away all the while.

It was fine. _Everything_ was just fine. Peachy. Tip-top. Tickety-boo and a half. Maybe even three-quarters.

~o~

Crowley leaned against the tall, shiny SMEG fridge, folded his arms, and critically surveyed the angel.

Aziraphale was nervous. Crowley knew the signs — that fluttery state of _Keep Busy, Everything Will Be Fine_ — and he tried, brow furrowed, to work out _why_.

He had been surprised to see Aziraphale (Was this the new normal? Shared breakfast?) and felt catapulted into something new and uncertain with no map. Except the breakfast was obviously a cover for something else. What for, Crowley couldn't work out.

“So then I thought, we should go away — wouldn’t that be lovely? A proper break, it’s been _ages_ since I’ve had a holiday, and we could go _together_. A — a shared holiday, like a, a, _a couple_ …”

Crowley noted Aziraphale’s excitement, and his mild terror at what it all meant, this whole new thing they were embarking on, but there was something else too. Yesterday the angel had literally renounced the very _idea_ of leaving home _(‘Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone’)_ , so why the sudden urgency to leave? What was he running from?

“Angel,” he interrupted, “What happened?”

“Why would anything have happened?” Aziraphale replied, blinking at him with nervous innocence, frozen halfway between the cupboard and the breakfast bar, a cup in each hand.

“Because you’re suddenly desperate to leave London, and you were fine yesterday. Right now, you’re more jumpy than a cat on a hot tin roof.”

“Oh, wasn’t that a _lovely_ play-” Aziraphale immediately replied, and Crowley sighed.

“No it wasn’t; it was bloody miserable. Stop…” he waved a hand in frustration. “Stop being evasive. Just _why_ — why this? What _is_ this?”

Aziraphale seemed to swallow painfully, then carefully put the cups down before clasping his hands together.

“I… I just wanted to help you, you understand. I didn’t mean to, to well…”

His voice drifted off, and Crowley began to feel genuine alarm.

Which was nothing compared to the alarm he felt when the angel confessed exactly how he’d spent the night.

“Did She do anything to you?” he asked, instinctively lurching for Aziraphale and, taking his angel's face in his hands, frantically searching his eyes. 

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking _for_ — he just knew that he couldn’t ignore the cold, sickening terror which had instantly gripped him. “Did She touch you at all?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. Whatever reaction the angel had been expecting to his tale, this naked panic clearly wasn’t it. “No,” he replied carefully. “She just… talked a great deal. And asked for a lot of hats.”

Relief and terror warring within him, Crowley pulled the angel into his arms, desperate to feel the solid reality of his beloved — the fabric of the familiar coat under his hands, the smell of the ‘new’ cologne where the demon buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck: basic, fundamental, physical contact to calm the still-present panic which was humming right under his skin and flickering along every synapse.

_‘You asked the most dangerous person in the entire universe to come around and I wasn’t there to protect you!’_ he wanted to yell, but satisfied himself by just holding on, feeling the reassuring weight and heft of the angel. Aziraphale was at first surprised but then reciprocated, wrapping his arms around the demon, and Crowley never wanted this to end.

(Hugs were a _fantastic_ invention. Didn’t exist in Heaven — and certainly not in Hell — but Crowley was all for adopting human customs. To hold, and to be held in return. How simple and yet miraculous.)

He breathed slowly, allowing himself to lean into the sickening fear rather than suppress it, to let it wash over him and then recede, like waves on a beach. His angel was okay. They were okay. They were okay.

(Behind his eyelids he could still see the Archangels, ordering ‘Aziraphale’ into the column of Hellfire, and had to bite back the bile that rose.)

“Never do that again, you hear me?” he eventually mumbled.

Aziraphale nodded against his neck, and after another long moment Crowley reluctantly untangled himself, making a mental note that daily hugs were now mandatory.

As if from a distance he heard the kettle boiling, and Aziraphale — after a long look filled with too many emotions for Crowley to process — turned back to the worktop to make the tea. Crowley didn’t remember owning a teapot (or a tea cosy for that matter), but there was a plump brown teapot next to the kettle and a rather jolly and colourful stripy knitted tea cosy (with a pom pom on top) next to the teapot. Both clashed horrendously with the rest of the kitchen.

(The sight did odd things to Crowley’s insides, even as it helped calm him — they were a portent of a shared future, not defined by sharp lines and rules about _good_ and _bad_ , black and white, but a mixture all their own.)

“So, She just talked at you?” he eventually asked. His whole body felt tingly with residual fear, and he still couldn’t quite allow himself to believe that the angel had escaped unharmed. What game was She playing?

“Let me guess,” he added, “talked a lot, said very little…”

He remembered _that_ aspect.

Aziraphale turned from carefully positioning the tea cosy and smiled tightly. “Yes, rather. I’m afraid you were entirely correct, dear; I should have listened to you. I’d hoped — but it doesn’t matter. As the humans say, one shouldn’t meet one’s heroes; they inevitably let you down.”

“She… let you down?”

He tried to act casual, having gone back to his previous position of leaning against the fridge. He could be casual. He was made of casual. But his heart was suddenly beating faster again.

“Yes. She said more than She meant to, I think. Or maybe She wasn’t expecting me to understand.”

The angel looked sad and disillusioned, and it made Crowley mad all over again. He didn’t want anyone to let Aziraphale down. Heaven was bad enough, but God Herself… (He wasn’t surprised, but he could still be mad.)

“She’s very clever,” Aziraphale continued. “And She has apparently done a lot of good, saving people all over the place back where She is from, according to the stories She was telling me, anyway. Her talents lie in — I’m not sure what the best words would be. Audacity and improvisation maybe? But She is _not_ …”

Aziraphale’s eyes unfocussed as if studying something in the distance, a hard line drawn between his eyebrows, uncompromising and resolute.

“-not ineffable at all. Except in as much as I wouldn’t even know where to start, separating fact from fiction.”

Crowley was poleaxed.

He had emerged from the night’s struggles in a new world that he couldn't quite yet define; he just knew that everything had changed. Finding Aziraphale already a resident there was not something he had imagined as even an infinitesimally remote possibility.

Mouth dry, he stuttered as he tried to formulate a response.

“You — you mean, you _know_? You understand how — how She’s just a, a-”

He searched for a word in vain, rummaging through a selection of different languages for likely terms, but Aziraphale spoke before he could find anything suitable. (Just as well. Probably would have been German.)

“ _Yes_ , dear,” the angel replied. “I understand. She was just making it all up as She went along, which is no way to run a universe, if I’m honest. And She… made a promise to help, which She then broke. We have parted ways for good. She — She called me a Rebel Angel before She left, but I don’t seem to have Fallen…”

He ran his hands over his waistcoat and then did a half-turn, as if to check his wings (despite not having them out). He caught himself and frowned.

“Seems strange, how much everything’s changed in a single night. I always thought that there was… _order_. That God knew what She was doing.”

A beat, then he added:

“I’m not exactly sure what to do now.”

Crowley tried to gather himself. He had barely begun to process last night himself, except for knowing that the fundamentals of his life had shifted irrevocably, and for the better. He wasn’t entirely sure how to react to Aziraphale’s revelations, but he felt he ought to say something.

Then he looked at the angel — the lost look on Aziraphale’s face, the frown that still hadn’t gone away — and instinctively understood the struggle. Remembered coming to in a pool full of sulphur, disoriented and head spinning, struggling to make sense of what had happened… And it had taken until last night for him to actually figure it out.

Even so, this called for new levels of honesty, and he didn’t know how to approach it. ‘I love you’ had been easy, the words confirming a truth they both knew.

But _this_? 

Crowley stared down the third rail of his existence and thought of every stupid, selfish, _desperate_ thing he'd ever done to keep the angel off it. But he could help Aziraphale now. And for the first time in his life, Aziraphale might actually understand.

Nothing else for it, then:

“I didn’t mean to Fall.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as they darted up to meet Crowley’s, and his lips parted a little, but he didn’t speak.

“Mmnnnnm, _well_ ,” the demon immediately modified. “I didn’t mean _not_ to Fall either, we didn’t really have a clue what we were doing. Except for Lucifer, the silver-tongued bastard. He did a good spiel, and I just tagged along, cause why not?” 

He sighed. Closed his eyes.

"No- That's not it either. He was… _making sense_ , Lucifer. Sense of the stuff that . . . you don't even have a way to explain why it bothers you. He had words for it."

He paused a long moment and then snapped back to life:

“Of course I had no idea what the consequences would be and then — well, it was too late. Hey presto, demon! Like a… thing that… goes presto... Not important. Point is, it wasn't exactly what I'd written on my last performance evaluation for where I see myself in five years. And I never — never understood _why_. Couldn't figure out what I'd _done_. And then of course the humans came along, who She, in Her delightfully _ineffable_ way, proceeded to screw over also. And like-” 

He was pacing now, he realised, nervous energy spilling out all over the place, arms waving to emphasise his words. Suddenly all the questions he had been asking since forever were coming out in a single torrent. And Aziraphale stood silently in the deluge and listened.

“-Is that just what She’s like? Did She set _me_ up to Fall, the way She did the humans? Was there a reason for it all — a way that all the pieces fit? If She is Good, then why does She _hurt_ people? And if _I'm_ Bad-"

Here he abruptly stopped, looking lost. He shook his head before continuing: 

“How, _exactly_ does Her judgement work? Look, you know me better than anyone. And I’m not saying I’m a choirboy, but tell me-”

He stopped pacing, spread his arms wide:

“Am I a bad person?”

Aziraphale answered reflexively, the words so automatic that he spoke before thinking: “Well, you’re a dem-”

He stopped, eyes widening as Crowley saw understanding crashing over him.

“Oh,” he breathed, and victory surged through Crowley.

“And that’s _it_!” he replied, hand scything through the air. “And _that’s_ what they’ve done. What She did. I’m bad, _because I’m a demon_. And it _never_ made sense to me. I would wonder — if I’m _bad_ , why is this so hard? If I'm bad, why don't I hate myself? If I'm bad, why can't I see _why_? Especially when looking at what Heaven was doing. It’s like — like _Brave New World_ , programming us all to never question anything.”

He could see Aziraphale was thinking furiously.

“Or — or _1984_ ,” the angel offered. “Getting us so caught up in defeating ‘the enemy’ that we never examine our own side…”

“Yessssss,” Crowley said, jubilant. Ah his clever, _clever_ angel. He could kiss him. Probably would later, because that was something they did now. But this moment, this understanding… It was the culmination of thousands of years’ worth of hopes finally bearing fruit, and he felt like dancing. Maybe that was something they did now too? He filed that thought under IMPORTANT EXPERIMENTS and did his best to refocus. He needed to push on. Because seeing the flaw was only half the equation.

“And then I got my memories back.”

He took a shaky breath.

“And so I worked it out, last night. Like you said — She’s just making it all up. _That’s_ why I Fell. All I did was to ask questions, and for just a _moment_ I glimpsed the man — uh, _woman_ — behind the curtain, and She couldn’t let that pass. Literally _erasing_ a part of me so that no one would find out Her secret.”

When he swallowed, it tasted acrid. His voice slowly rose as his arms wheeled:

"And I don't care _what_ Her reasons were, it was _wrong_. What She did to me was _wrong_. So y’know — _Fuck_ Her.”

He stopped. Took a breath and let the words seep into all the cracks.

It was like water in the desert.

When he began again, he was calmer: "I never wanted to be a demon, but I wouldn’t go back to Heaven if they paid me to.”

And that too felt good.

He stepped carefully over to Aziraphale. Stood still, holding his angel's eyes. This was the important part, the thing he needed to make sure the angel understood above everything else.

“So I’m — I’m _happy_ , being who I am. This is where I choose to be." He broke into a half smile, the smallest, most delicate thing. "And I am impossibly, perfectly, _fine_.”

Aziraphale had visibly been going through a wide range of emotions, but realising that Crowley had finished, he suddenly seemed at a loss. His hand fluttered from where it had been resting on the worktop, undecided; then after a moment the angel clasped both hands together and straightened up, his face gone grave and solemn.

“Crowley… I need to apologise-”

“Angel,” he waved a hand. This was ridiculous. But he should have foreseen that his little trick would have made the angel feel guilty again. He silently kicked himself for the gaffe. “That’s _not_ what this is about. You have nothing to apologise for-”

“I do,” the angel rebutted, and he looked so earnest that Crowley shut his mouth and listened. This clearly mattered to Aziraphale, even if it didn’t to Crowley.

“It’s what I should have done immediately. I am sorry for going behind your back.” A deep shaky breath. “Not just last night, but — but all the other times I have done so. All the times I… treated you like an enemy, even when I knew better. Like someone untrustworthy, when I was the duplicitous one. I tried to tell myself that the ends justified the means, but I knew I was lying to myself. And to you. I have been a bad friend, and I am sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Crowley wanted to yell that there was nothing to forgive, but Aziraphale’s choice of words gave him pause. ‘Bad friend’. This ran deeper than just calling him a ‘demon’ whenever he felt uncomfortable. This was about voicing all the things that for so long they couldn’t say. About the things they’d had to do… And somewhere at the core of it were all the ways in which Aziraphale had used _forgiveness_ as a defence over the years. That angelic weapon of last resort: seldom deployed but chilling and absolute in its effects. Crowley wasn’t quite sure how to grapple with what this reversal meant. But it was clear that the angel wanted to address the past before moving forward…

He did his best to compose his face into something suitable because he was desperately unsure how, exactly, to handle this, and carefully said: “I forgive you.”

He received a very serious nod in return as well as an equally serious, “Thank you Crowley.”

Crowley maintained eye contact for an eternity of several seconds before making a break for the breakfast bar. He paused at the angel's side, though, and running a thoughtful knuckle down his well-worn sleeve, added, lowly, “’Course I forgive you."

He did not miss Aziraphale's soft intake of breath and let his finger linger for a moment on a button by his wrist.

Then, as it was all rather too much, he popped himself onto a bar stool with a cocky grin: "Except for that thing with the chickens in Budapest. You're living with that on your soul forever.”

Aziraphale whipped around with narrowed eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirked up affectionately in response. "Wretched serpent."

Crowley's grin widened, and Aziraphale moved off to busy himself with the pastries, casting fond glances over his shoulder from time to time as he did so.

The wretched serpent, for his part, did his best to continue to look encouraging while simultaneously shifting awkwardly in his seat and cursing his own decorating choices. He’d never used the breakfast bar before, and the bar stools were ridiculous and tall, making him feel like he was balancing on stilts. They looked great, but _as chairs_ they failed miserably.

Breakfast made an appearance shortly thereafter, and Crowley at this point remembered that pastries were the messiest breakfast in existence. Aziraphale happily shed flakes everywhere as Crowley simply nursed his cup of tea and watched his angel eat.

He had enjoyed this sight for millennia, in taverns and restaurants and rented rooms and little huts — this wondrous combination of the angel savouring a meal whilst talking away. It was a ritual that helped ground them both, familiar and comforting, and Crowley smiled. He had been smitten for so long that his memory cheerfully coloured every past event in the same hues, like a three year old with a favourite crayon. And now he could indulge to his heart’s content.

Aziraphale — who, having unburdened his conscience, was slowly beginning to rally — found it impossible not to expand on the night’s revelations, becoming animated and rather gratifyingly judgmental. (The queen bitch in a frock coat, how Crowley loved him.) Somewhat despite himself, Crowley was intrigued as the angel relayed what insights he had gleaned.

“So the universe is… a cosmic accident?” he asked, unsure what to make of this, although he appreciated how fitting it was. "Like when a human leaves the potatoes on for too long and discovers super glue or a brand new way to kill millions?"

Aziraphale acknowledged this with a sideways glare that said at once 'behave' and 'I am too charmed to scold you properly.'

“Apparently so. Big accidental explosion due to — and I assure you this is what She said — a clockwork squirrel, and She just… made the best of things. Helped the unexpected DNA — that’s us, the angels as we all were back then — to evolve; bit like a midwife as far as I could gather, not so much _creating_ as poking things at the right points. The hierarchy of Heaven came out of something called ‘Wikipedia’, or so She claimed.” Here the angel went slightly bug-eyed in his incredulity and wrinkled his nose before going on. “I’m sure at least half the words She used were made up.”

Crowley tried not to chuckle at the mention of Wikipedia and felt like saying something, except — except what had the angel said just before that? His brain didn't so much back up as throw the handbrake and pull a screeching J-turn. Finding what he was looking for, he blinked in astonishment.

Surely it couldn’t be. He held up a hand.

“Wait. Wait wait wait. Hang on, come again. _We’re_ random too?”

Aziraphale blinked and looked up from his tea.

“Yes, that’s the impression I got. ‘A new life form’ She called us, composed of ‘miscellaneous DNA and stardust and swans’ wings’ if I remember right…”

Crowley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There was a strange emotion in his chest that he wasn’t sure what to do with. Something new, something like… _freedom_?

OK, laughter it was.

He felt a happy smile spreading, as if it had developed a life of its own, and it swept through him, fresh like a spring breeze and glittering like stardust. They had just Set The World To Rights (after millennia of friendly — and not so friendly — arguments), only to discover the world had been To Rights all along.

“Angel! Don’t you see? That means — that means we were _right_! We’re just _creatures_. No inherent goodness or badness, we’re just… _people_. Like, like the humans?”

Aziraphale had gone completely still, a pain au chocolat paused halfway to his mouth. Crowley had very rarely _seen_ an epiphany, but it was a glorious sight to behold.

“So we are.”

A luminous smile slowly lit up the angel’s face, like turning up the flame on a lamp, and Crowley felt the old cosmology he had always believed in melt away like a bad dream.

Aziraphale then carried on talking, but Crowley was only half listening. He had miracled his cup full of coffee and sat back (metaphorically speaking; the bar stools were not made for reclining) to make an attempt at settling into this new world in which the two of them were now citizens.

He remembered the French Revolution, and — although it had gotten rather bloody, the way human revolutions tended to — the basics had been sound…

_Les hommes naissent et demeurent libres et égaux en droits._

(Men are born and remain free and equal in rights.)

He raised his cup to them. Good old humans, trust them to grasp essential truths. And bollocks to the Almighty for lying about this too.

He had dreamed of a shared future many times, even as he had been afraid to believe it could ever come true. But here it was, as real as the angel next to him or the teapot on the kitchen counter.

In his mind he began populating the kitchen with further evidence of Aziraphale’s presence: a biscuit tin, books (possibly even cookbooks), novelty towels, an old-fashioned radio that would play _Radio 4_ or _Classic FM_ depending on mood, mismatched crockery and a general selection of random clutter that would drive Crowley quietly mad even though he loved it… 

It would spill over into the flat (and the bookshop), their lives enmeshing, one small piece at a time. A shared life, in every way. There would come a day when they didn’t part in the evening (maybe not soon, it didn’t matter, they had all the time in the world) — and then, even further on, there would be a day when he would get out of their (shared) bed and find his angel already in their kitchen, wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown and reading a book whilst eating breakfast, barely noticing Crowley as the demon entered, too absorbed in his tome, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Crowley knew he would step up and kiss the angel’s neck, a feather-soft touch of lips to skin, and the angel would smile and murmur a declaration of love. And that would be normal.

He swallowed against the vision — it was too much, too soon, he couldn’t contain such happiness, not yet. But it would become reality, he knew it. There would be a moment like the one he had glimpsed — except not just one, there would be endless others. A cornucopia of happy futures, lining up in front of them just waiting to be grasped.

Most impossibly of all — this happiness was their rightful due. Not just as a fuck you to The Powers That Be, not as a way to turn their back on their previous lives, but as a fundamental Right. It was a notion so extraordinary that he had to just sit with it for a while.

_‘O brave new world,’_ mused Crowley, _‘that has such people in’t.’_ 2

Three seconds later the bar stool finally gave up on its battle with gravity and he crashed to the ground.

He looked up, sure that there ought to be cartoon birds twittering around his head, and instead finding the angel standing over him, alarmed.

“Crowley! _Crowley_ , are you okay?”

“M fine,” he muttered, red faced, and grasped the hand held out to him. “Just these _stupid_ chairs.”

“They are a somewhat… precarious venture,” Aziraphale replied as Crowley got to his feet and tried to feel less foolish. If you picture a cat after it’s accidentally fallen off a bookshelf, you should get an accurate mental image.

Miracling the spilt coffee away he then grabbed hold of the back of the bar stool, unwilling to get back on, but unsure what to do. "Yeah, I'm a great faller, me," he ventured, while Aziraphale continued to hover, concernedly. "Falling, mnnnnhg, all the time. 'S my super power." He nodded along, urging plausibility.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in exaggerated mock interest. "Is that so?"

"If you're lucky, I'll tell you about it someday." Crowley prodded the angel in the chest with a fake magnanimity that managed to salvage the rest of his dignity. Or not. Either way it was fine.

"Mmmmmm," Aziraphale hummed and picked up his cup again, clearly needing more tea as fortification.

_Right, change of subject_ , Crowley decided and grasped the first thing that sprang to mind: “You wanted to go on holiday?”

Aziraphale — instead of, as anticipated, launching into a ready list of destinations (including reminiscences of past visits and detailed recollections of all the meals they’d shared, complete with menus and wine lists) — hesitated, eyes skittering away, and looked somewhere between prim and uncomfortable.

Dammit. Crowley’d thought he’d picked a safe topic; he was _done_ with deep conversations for the next century at least. 

Thankfully the angel seemed to rally although he still looked embarrassed as he shot Crowley a sheepish smile.

“Ah. That. Well. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a silly old fool, dear. It might have been a way to, um, get away from, well… last night.”

“God is everywhere, angel,” Crowley smirked at him, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“She can go anywhere, sure, but She can only be in one place at a time. I _think_.”

Crowley tilted his head. “Don’t suppose She told you where She’ll be for the foreseeable future? So we know where to avoid? If you still want to go. Can’t say I’d mind a change of scenery.”

Aziraphale thought carefully. “Not sure, She was just tying things up, from what She said… Implementing The Ineffable Plan, a _Sound of Music_ sing-along, and…” he hesitated, “something about visiting the Antichrist.”

A pause, as Crowley took this on board. “She means Adam. She’s going to visit Adam. Why?”

“Didn’t say… Although if I had to hazard a guess I’d say She’s curious. At one point She was wondering how, you know, your, um, former boss, had managed to orchestrate Armageddon in the way he had… She seemed rather impressed.” A beat, as Aziraphale’s voice trailed off, clearly doing his best to work out what Crowley was implying. “Surely you don’t think the boy’s in _danger_? He had enough power to turn the world upside down…”

Crowley drummed his fingers on the bar top, glum. “ _Did_ have. But does he still? And the Almighty knows how to play all nice and friendly and non-threatening — Adam’s only a kid, he won’t know to be cautious.”

He fell silent, turning the situation over in his head. On the one hand, he never wanted to see God again. Ever. And She seemed likely to leave them alone, which was even better. They had no obligations to anyone except themselves and their new life. But on the other hand... 

He looked up, studied the angel, “I guess the question is: do you trust Her?”

Aziraphale looked paler than before and slowly shook his head.

Mere moments later they were in the Bentley, driving towards Tadfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _‘Mon chou’_. This is a French term of endearment like honey or sweetie in English. It literally means ‘my cabbage’. However the origin of the word comes from _chou à la crème_ (or creampuff) which is a sweet and yummy puff pastry. Of course Aziraphale would know this and may not even have caught up with the current use.  
> 2\. _‘O brave new world, that has such people in’t.’_ From The Tempest. The 'O brave new world' line comes toward the end of the play and is Miranda's excitement at her new life. Ironically, what she's excited about, the brave new world, is just ordinary life. I'm sure you can see the thematic appropriateness. :)
> 
> (Next chapter we are back to comedy!! I would apologise for the heaviness of the recent chapters, except my fic ALWAYS ends up with a ton of meta and character exploration... *hands*)


	12. When Adam Met God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day when the Antichrist _(the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness)_ met the Doctor _(the Destroyer of Worlds, the Oncoming Storm, the Imp of the Pandorica, the Shadow of the Valeyard, the Beast of Trenzalore, the Butcher of Skull Moon, the Last Tree of Garsennon and the Destroyer of Skaro)._
> 
> Aziraphale _(the Angel of the Eastern Gate)_ and Anthony J Crowley _(the Serpent of Eden)_ also make an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual. Promethia did half, Juliet was fab, and it took forever. And, as promised, this one is a comedy. This gif somehow says it best:

Adam had never been called out of class in the first week of school before. He had no idea what he might have done, but he was pleased nonetheless, beaming at the school secretary who had come to fetch him and making her smile nervously in return.

If he was honest, Adam had been a bit apprehensive about starting secondary school. The summer had seemed like it would never end, but then (against all logic and common sense) it _had_ — and so here he was, surrounded by a lot of teenagers, a state of affairs which he didn’t particularly appreciate.

However he was good at adjusting the world, making it fit with what he wanted. Besides which he had stared down Satan himself, so a spotty fifteen-year-old attempting intimidation held no fear for him. And now this on top? He could consider his first week a thorough success.

He wasn’t taken to the Principal’s office however, but down to reception where an oddly dressed woman was waiting for him. She had blonde hair and colourful clothing and a long, pale, swishy coat, and wore shoes that looked sturdy and good for running.

She also made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end in a way they hadn’t since he’d stopped Armageddon.

“Adam,” the receptionist said, sounding more surprised than Adam was himself. “This is Doctor Smith. She is here from a group working with Gifted & Talented Children, and she is going to talk to you for a little bit, is that OK?”

Doctor Smith smiled widely and held out some sort of leather wallet with paper in.

“See?” she said, “We want to help maximise your potential, Adam.”

Adam looked at the paper. It said ‘ **GOD** ’ in big black letters.

His eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything, just nodded. This was _way_ more exciting than Geography. His new Geography teacher hadn’t believed him when he’d talked about Tibetan tunnels or Atlantis (not surprising, most grownups were very ill-informed), and he’d half expected to be told he would be getting detention. For… answering back, or something stupid like that.

But instead he was being led into an empty classroom by the most interesting person he’d seen in _weeks_.

She didn’t sit down immediately, instead poking around and being nosy, looking through the teacher’s drawers, taking a bite of an eraser (she clearly didn’t like the taste, since she immediately pulled a face and spat the piece back out), and then noticing the big world map on the wall.

Looking positively offended she pulled a red marker from a pocket, drew a big ‘X’ in the middle of the ocean, then wrote ‘Atlantis’ next to it, muttering to herself. Then added three exclamation points for good measure.

Adam liked her immediately.

“I’m not really from a Gifted & Talented group,” she said, turning from the map and grinning at him widely.

He nodded.

“I know. Your paper said ‘God’.”

She wrinkled her nose and got the odd wallet out again, looking at it as if had personally insulted her.

“Really?” She shook it. “Hm. Well I guess that’s down to your talents, not the paper’s fault. The point of it is to make things up, not tell the truth. My _name_ is the Doctor.”

Adam felt excitement bubble up in earnest, never thinking to question how or why this woman knew who he really was. After all — if she was God, then it all followed logically.

She grabbed a chair at random and he took a seat across from her, a desk between them. It was a desk with _history_ , chipped, carved, and graffitied, and blissfully unaware that today’s proceedings would outstrip any previous happenings it had borne witness to.

“Are you really God?” Adam asked without any preamble. “Everyone always says that God is, like, an old man on a cloud with a long white beard.”

She looked thoughtful.

“Well I was an old man for a while — well a few times — but I never had a beard…”

Then her eyebrows shot up, as if she had managed to surprise herself.

“No wait, I did! But that was a very long time ago. Anyway — in answer to your question, then yes I _did_ create your world.”

A wide grin spread across Adam’s face.

“ _Wicked_! Did you do it in six days? And were you all like ‘LET THERE BE LIGHT!’ and then boom! The sun was there? ‘Cause that’s kinda what it was like when I had my powers. I just said things, and they happened.”

Except God winced, much like Adam’s mum when he scraped his fork on a plate.

“It… took longer than six days. _Quite_ a lot longer. And I didn’t do it all myself, I had lots of help from the angels.”

This was also new information and Adam relished it. But before he could say so, God carried on, smiling once more:

“Anyway before I forget — I came mostly to say thank you. I really like the world and didn’t want it to be destroyed.”

He smiled back, pleased.

“I like the world too. And those stupid people just wanted to have a stupid big war.”

She nodded.

“Wars are very stupid, so well done you for not doing as you were told.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially.

“I was a troublemaker too, when I was a little boy. _Always_ in bother. I thought school was _way_ too boring, and all my teachers would tell me off and say… hang on, let me get this right… that I would never amount to anything in the galaxy while I retained my propensity for ‘vulgar facetiousness’. That means they thought I should be more sensible. But being sensible is so _dull_.”

Adam (who, unlike Aziraphale, had no preconceived ideas about the Almighty and knew no theology) accepted all of this without a flicker.

“Did you used to pretend to fight monsters too?” he asked eagerly, and she nodded, her eyes lit up with pure mischief.

“All the time. And people said that I had to grow up and be a soldier, but — just like you — I quite simply refused to do as I was told. Instead, when I got older, I stole a spaceship and ran away. So now I just travel all over really and have adventures, except a lot of the time I end up saving planets from monsters. There are _a lot_ of monsters out there.”

Adam bit his lip, beginning to be rather overwhelmed.

“Are you like… a proper superhero?”

God considered this.

“Kinda? I just try to help if people are in trouble.”

“With pirates? And aliens and cowboys and detectives and killer robots?” he asked, and she grinned.

“Oh yeah. All of those, and more. Actually, last time I was in a school I was _properly_ undercover as a caretaker. I suspected that there was a killer robot from the future somewhere around.”

“And was there?” Adam asked, breathlessly.

“Of course! And then I foiled it, sucking it into a big time vortex billions of years into the future so it could safely explode. It was called a Skovox Blitzer.”

“Any of them around at my school?” Adam asked hopefully, but God shook her head.

“Nah, the most interesting thing here by far is you. Which reminds me-”

She pulled a weird metallic thing out of her pocket.

“This is my sonic screwdriver. Made it myself, mostly out of spoons. I’m going to scan you, okay? Just to see if I can figure out how you did all the things you did.”

She let action follow words, and the thing buzzed in a cool sci-fi-y way.

Looking at it she pursed her lips. “Interesting.”

Then she scanned more widely, and slowly nodded as she studied her silver-y tool.

“It’s like a nexus. Built up over time in tiny increments. Layer after layer after layer. Oh he was always dead clever, your father. I haven’t seen anything this ingenious in… I don’t even know how long.”

The words were like a bucket of cold water, and Adam felt his excitement instantly vanish.

“He’s not my father,” he said, quietly, but with emphasis, and God looked up at him.

“Oh. Well, he’s not your _dad_ , but you’re a lot like him. In looks too.”

At the clearly horrified look on his face, she quickly added:

“ _Before_ he Fell, I mean! Back then he was my best friend, and he was clever and inventive and brilliant and… Well, I miss him. Imagine if you had a best friend and you fell out and then never, _ever_ made up again. Here, let me show you. I’ve got a picture.”

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a mobile phone, tapping away until she found what she was looking for, then held it out. Adam leaned forward cautiously, then realised that it was a selfie. There was God, and an angel… The angel wasn’t wearing regular clothes like the angels he’d seen at the airbase but looked like an angel _should_ look. Big white fluffy wings and a long white robe, and golden curly hair and smiling blue eyes. And a face that…

He tilted his head, studying it, and she indicated that he could take the phone.

He wondered what had happened, really. The angel looked so happy, why had he thought that being big and angry and red and destroying the world was a better option? It was so _obviously_ stupid.

“Would you like to say hi to him?” God asked, and he lifted his eyes in alarm.

“ _No_ ,” he said, very firmly, but God winked and reached into her pocket again.

“Don’t worry, he’s… contained. Literally.”

And she brought out a jam jar, lid screwed on tightly and taped down, in which was… Adam’s father.

His jaw dropped, and he put the phone down on the table, staring.

His father — last he’d seen — had been huge and terrifying, the size of a building, if buildings could move around and wreak havoc. Like Godzilla or something. But now he was about two and a half inches tall and was ineffectually, but very angrily, hammering at the glass.

“How…” he asked, crouching down to study the tiny figure, and God smirked.

“Miniaturisation ray. Quite simple, really.”

“Wow.” Adam tapped the jar and was rewarded with a furious tirade — the words absorbed by the glass so it looked like a silent movie. This was a great improvement in every way.

“What are you going to do with him?”

God rested her head in her hands and sighed.

“Dunno to be honest. He’s not very cooperative — are you Lucy?”

“Lucy?” Adam asked, and she grinned goofily.

“Well, he wanted to be called ‘Lucifer Morningstar’ but it was a bit grand, so I used to call him ‘Lucy’ for short.”

Adam studied the angry little red demon with his flappy bat wings and nodded firmly. “Lucy is good. I like it.”

You couldn’t be scared of someone called ‘Lucy’. It made everything much better, proportionally.

What God would have said next was forever lost, since at that moment the door burst open and an angel and a demon charged in. Not just any angel or demon, but the two who had helped Adam at the airfield.

The demon was brandishing a fire extinguisher (an interesting choice of accessory, the reason for which Adam could not immediately puzzle out) and his outfit (as before) was black-on-black. Maybe demons _had_ to wear black? He looked slick and stylish and dangerous in a way that made the words ’secret agent’ float around in Adam’s head, happily bumping into exciting possibilities. Added to this was the fact that — although less sooty than last time — he looked equally determined, glaring at God in a very cross and grim way.

The angel looked nervous. He was only one person this time (which was good), but wasn’t wielding a flaming sword, which made Adam a little disappointed. (The sword had been _cool_.) The angel still gave the impression of having stepped straight out of a book from ‘the olden days’, including the cosy cream and pale blue outfit, but Adam never questioned the fact that storybook characters seemed to populate his life. It was all he had ever known. (That the angel had almost killed him wasn’t really an issue. After all, Adam himself had almost given in to the voices telling him to start Armageddon, before he’d thought better of it with his friends’ help. It had been a weird day, and the angel had ended up standing beside him and helping him. And that had meant the world.)

At this moment the angel’s eyes were darting around the room, panicked, and after a few seconds of indecision he picked up a chair and held it up in front of him like a lion tamer.

Adam found all of this very strange, especially the chair. But despite this he smiled happily and was about to say hello when the demon aimed the fire extinguisher at God and snarled: 

“Step away from the kid!”

God blinked slowly; then her mouth curved into a self-assured smile. “Or you’ll… _what_ , exactly?”

A beat, then the demon (somewhat peevishly) squeezed the handle and covered God in foam as Adam’s mouth fell open.

“Careful!” God yelped, scooping up the jar with Lucy in it (which was swiftly drowning in froth).

The angel, smiling nervously behind his chair, caught Adam’s eye. “ _So_ sorry about barging in like this. But in our role as honorary godfathers we just wanted to-”

He stopped as he was poked in the ribs with the extinguisher.

The demon pointed to the jar (which God was now wiping foam off of), his eyes wide and shocked: “Waitwaitwaitwait — _why is Satan in a jam jar_?”

“I needed to contain him?” God replied (which seemed perfectly logical to Adam), and the demon looked pained, gripping the fire extinguisher harder. Not saying anything, but jaw nonetheless working.

(Adam, delighted at this unexpected turn of events, began poking at the foam. It was like being in a huge bath!)

God then looked up at the intruders, her eyes narrowing. “And pardon me for asking, but you’ve both said you wanted nothing to do with me, so why are you here?”

“The boy…” the angel replied from behind his chair-shield, voice trailing off as the demon smiled that sort of nasty, grown-up smile that wasn’t a smile at all.

“Thought we’d come by and check on him since we don’t really trust you.”

“Rude!” God replied, looking indignant. The demon raised a single eyebrow.

“No; _honest_. Might be a novel concept for you, we realise that.”

God practically pouted, but then her eyes trailed back to the bubble mountain she was sitting in, and a smile broke out once more.

“What’s _novel_ is being attacked with a fire extinguisher! Don’t remember _that_ ever happening before. Go on, give us some more foam. Foam is great!”

She scooped up a handful of bubbles and put them on her head, grinning at Adam, who beamed back. God was just all-round brilliant! (He needed to have _words_ with the vicar; he had greatly misrepresented the reality of godliness.)

“I fought a foam monster once,” God then remarked to no one in particular. “No wait, twice! I _think_. It was a long time ago, memory’s a bit fuzzy. But I like to put _a lot_ of bubbles in the TARDIS jacuzzi…”

The demon, slowly shaking his head, put down the fire extinguisher on a desk with a thunk and turned to the angel, throwing his hands in the air.

The angel shot him a quick look, muttering “Told you so,” in the exact same tone of voice that Adam’s mother would use when Adam’s dad had gotten them lost after refusing to ask for directions.

A beat; then the angel sighed, put down the chair and clutched his hands together, studying Adam very gravely. “ _Adam_ — are you OK? We didn’t want you to be alone or overwhelmed…”

“M’ _fine_ ,” Adam replied, nonplussed. Wasn’t it obvious? God was awesome, and (although he didn’t quite understand what the arguments were about) the foam was a great addition to an already exceptional day. Also foam monsters were real. That would be an _excellent_ game.

Best. school day. _ever_.

Although the angel still looked like he wanted a ‘proper’ answer, just like the teachers. Adam decided to be benevolent and offer further information:

“God was telling me about… all kinds of things. Like how _his_ name’s Lucy.”

He pointed at his father, who was now sat sulking at the bottom of the glass, glaring daggers at everyone.

“Lucy…” the demon echoed, studying the jam jar and obviously thinking hard. Adam found himself fascinated by his eyes. Snake eyes were very cool.

“Guessing it’s a nickname for ‘Lucifer’,” the demon continued, leaning forwards and eyeing up the tiny red figure. “Huh. No wonder you rebelled.”

Lucy made a very rude gesture, but God either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Lucy’s a _fab_ nickname!” she declared, before throwing some foam at the demon.

The demon was clearly not as fond of foam as God or Adam, as his response was to start brushing the bubbles off his black jeans with angry vigour, grumbling under his breath. Adam caught the word ‘Bloody’ as well as a few other interesting expressions that he filed away for future use. 

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” the angel said, looking deeply disapproving of everything, before snapping his fingers and making all the bubbles disappear.

Adam pouted, even as he was thinking through the logistics of helping himself to the fire extinguisher. Surely he could manage to smuggle it away under his blazer?

The demon on the other hand seemed pleased and surprised, shooting the angel a swift, practically _sappy_ look, accompanied by a “Thanks, angel”. (Ugh, was nowhere safe from that nonsense? Even demons were not immune, apparently.)

But God (bubbles evidently forgotten) tilted her head, eyes fastened on the demon.

“Off-topic, but I _have_ to ask…. How do you get dressed? Like, do you _miracle_ those trousers on?”

Adam let his eyes travel down to the demon’s legs. The trousers _did_ seem very tight and uncomfortable.

Before the demon could answer, God carried on:

“So, weird story, but I used to have that _exact_ body, I _know_ what it can do, and getting into those trousers isn’t possible without some kind of bending of the laws of physics. OK, I say ‘that body’, not literally _that_ body of course, but close enough as makes no difference…”

The angel cleared his throat while laying a hand on the demon’s arm.

“Lord- I mean, _Doctor_. Your ability to go off on a tangent is still… unsurpassed, but-”

“What do you mean you used to have his body?” Adam interrupted. He pointed at the demon. She’d also said something about having been an old man with white hair. “Can you just change your face? Or your whole body? Could I do that too?”

This was very exciting. He liked his own face, but if he could make himself look different for a while, that would be _great_. The amount of mischief he could cause… He imagined running around the village looking like Mr Tyler and his glee was unbounded.

God hesitated for a moment. “I can’t just change whenever I _feel_ like it…”

She put the jam jar back on the desk (Lucy still angrily shaking his fist at the cool demon), but then she leaned forwards and caught Adam’s eyes.

“OK, so — in short I’m an alien from a different universe.”

Adam felt like all his birthdays had come at once. God was an alien! This day couldn’t get any better.

The demon groaned, burying his head in his hands, but the angel shushed him. Which was good, because Adam definitely wanted to hear what God was about to tell him.

“I don’t die like humans do — when my body gets really old or hurt I _regenerate_. Hmmm. How to explain it… Have you heard of a phoenix? They’re these amazing birds, and when they get old they burn up and then get a new body. It’s a bit like that. Hang on…”

She began rooting through her pockets yet again before making a loud happy noise, much like Brian when he’d found an unexpected sweet at the bottom of a pocket.

“Ha! Here it is.”

She pulled out another wallet, and a sheaf of photographs dropped down.

“What’s that?” Adam asked, and she beamed at him.

“Pictures of all my faces. Well, most of them. Used to belong to — um, never mind. Now, here we are!”

She held out one of the pictures, and Adam looked from the photo to the demon and back again.

The likeness was quite something. The man in the picture had brown hair and brown eyes (far less interesting than red hair and snake eyes), but otherwise he was what Adam’s dad would refer to as ‘a dead ringer’.

“That is _remarkable_!” the angel said, leaning in, as the demon seemed to turn paler and took a step back.

“S’ how I noticed him in the first place,” God carried on. “Dead jealous of the red hair by the way. Always wanted to be ginger. And he used to have these _gorgeous_ ringlets, like Shirley Temple, but much longer-”

“Oh, they were _beautiful_ ,” the angel cooed, glancing at the demon with a look that could probably melt rocks.

“This is… _ridiculous_ ,” the demon cut in, then jabbed a finger at God. “ _You_ are ridiculous. I’m not listening to this. Look: we mostly came to stop you from hurting the kid-”

God’s jaw dropped.

“Why would I hurt _a child_? What-”

“Yeah, let’s not go there,” the demon said, holding up a hand. “ _However_ , there is another point we wanted to raise. On the way here Aziraphale told me about The Ineffable Plan…”

“And?” God replied, hostile. Adam didn’t know what they were talking about, but God looked like how Adam felt when his friends criticised his ideas.

The demon curled his lip.

“I think it’s _shit_.”

God, clearly taken aback, rolled her eyes and spread her arms. “And _everyone’s_ a critic!”

Then — leaning back in her chair and folding her arms (Adam was deeply impressed with the effortless air of ‘attitude’ that she exuded) — she lifted her chin, challenging.

“Go on then. Think you can do better?”

The demon folded his arms in return and rocked back on his heels, staring down at God and smiling a pointy, disdainful sort of smile.

"Samuel Pepys' buried _cheese_ 1 could do better, so yes, yes I can.”

There was a pause as they angrily eyed each other up. Adam sighed and laid down on the desk, resting his head on his arms. Everything had been fun, and now they were arguing.

“That’s bold,” God sniffed. “I’ve been making plans since I was _his_ age-” she indicated Adam with a tilt of her head, “My brain is a plan _factory_ , I’ve made more plans than you can _possibly_ imagine. I’ve defeated carnivorous shadows and fish vampires and living statues and Satan _twice_! In two universes!" Her eyes darted to the jar. "Three times if you count little Lucy there. _And_ helped negotiate the most perfect treaty of all time. So, since this is _my world_ , you better believe I took extra care with this one.”

Taking her eyes off the demon, she leaned towards Adam.

“Remind me to tell you about the time I stole the moon and the President’s daughter, back when I was a boy. Well I didn’t _steal_ the moon, I lost it… Anyway, long story, you’ll love it — it’s got ghosts too!”

Adam perked up and hoped they’d stop arguing now. God was the best grown-up he had ever met and he really wanted more stories.

Unfortunately, it was not to be.

“ _Your_ world,” the demon repeated slowly, voice low and with an edge to it that caught Adam somewhere between the shoulder blades, causing him to shiver. This wasn’t just an argument, this was _serious_.

“Pray tell us,” the demon continued, “how exactly is this _your_ world? Oh I know you _created_ it, but it seems to me that your claim to ownership isn’t any better than Satan's was over Adam, here. You _made_ us, sure. And then you just… buggered off for an age-” he flung an arm out, dismissively “-and left us to figure it _all_ out on our own, didn't you? Only to come back, ohhhh an eternity later, just to put your _rubbish_ plan into action! Expecting everyone to dance to your tune!”

At this point the demon shot Adam a swift look:

“You were bloody _brilliant_ , kid. Very proud of you.”

“Oh you have _no idea_ -” God began, eyes blazing and looking properly angry. “You saved the world _once_ and suddenly you’re an expert? You think you can stop Heaven and Hell from fighting each other? They’ve been enemies for _six thousand years_ thanks to this idiot-” she waved towards Lucy in his little jar, “-and you think you can fix that? Do you have even the _faintest_ clue how hard it is to forge a good truce? Actually, do you know what this is like? It’s like having my very own Baldrick2 with his very own ‘Cunning Plan’.”

There was a definite sneer on God’s face, and Adam felt his heart plummet. Instinctively he looked to the angel — after all, on the airfield the angel had thought of something so clever that it had made Heaven and Hell stop their war. Whether he could perform a similar miracle this time was unclear, since both God and the demon looked ready to start punching each other. _Why_ was a mystery, but then that was (sadly) the way of grown-ups.

Whatever look was in his eyes seemed to strike the angel, as he immediately stepped forwards, hands held up.

“Wait! You are upsetting the boy.”

He motioned towards Adam, and the other two both seemed to pause.

“Now,” the angel continued. “We don’t want everyone to start shouting at each other and storming out, do we? Surely we can do this in a more… _civilised_ way. Crowley dear, why don’t you take a seat?”

He pulled out a chair and — after a moment — the demon obliged. Then the angel took a chair for himself and looked around them all.

“Right then. I have a — a _suggestion_. What if to begin with the Almighty… _Apologies_ … What if to begin with _the Doctor_ explains her Ineffable Plan, so we are all clear on what it entails. I may have misunderstood it, or not been made aware of all the facts. Last night was… I didn’t…”

His voice trailed off for a moment before continuing:

“What I am trying to say is that there was a lot to take in and I may not have been as attentive as I should have been once the Doctor began setting forth her plan. So, it would seem prudent to go over the whole thing in detail. Once we all understand the Doctor’s proposals, Crowley can explain _his_ ideas. And then finally…” He suddenly smiled a tiny, unexpected little smile, which gave Adam more hope than anything else so far. “Finally _Adam_ here could decide which one should be implemented. We know Adam is a clever boy and he made the right choices when the fate of the whole world was at stake… So would you trust him to make a decision this time also? After all, the Ineffable Plan will affect humanity, and it only seems fair that a human should get a say.”

Adam sat up straight, suddenly alert again. He beamed at the Azira-angel, who beamed straight back, and Adam could have sworn he winked. The angel made Adam feel… _safe_. As if he’d conjured a kindly, protective Guardian Angel to support him when he felt overwhelmed. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth.

The demon Crowley and God looked at each other warily, then at Adam, then back at each other.

“Deal,” they said in unison.

At this point Adam felt he needed to ask a very important question:

“What does ‘ineffable’ mean?”

~o~

“So, why were you called out of class? Go on, you promised to tell us after school!”

They were walking through the woods, Dog jumping around them excitedly, and Pepper was getting quite adamant.

Adam smiled. He was brimming with secrets — some he could tell, some he couldn’t. He didn’t know which was better. He lazily swung the fire extinguisher back and forth and waited just long enough to make them impatient, but not annoyed.

“God wanted to talk to me.”

There was a pause, and he could tell the other three were exchanging glances.

“So… what was he like?” Wensleydale asked, and Adam’s smile widened.

“Not he. _She_.”

“Ha!” said Pepper triumphantly. “Hang on — was she that blonde lady who was hanging around reception?”

“That’s her. She is _totally_ cool. She’s an alien from another universe and she can’t die, she just bursts into flame like-” he couldn’t remember the name, “-like a bird and then comes back with a different face. And she was a troublemaker when she was a kid and then she stole a spaceship and ran away, and now she spends all her time saving planets from evil monsters and pirates and killer robots! _And_ she can travel in time.”

There was a long pause after this statement.

“Adam…” Brian said eventually. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, but…”

He turned, studying his friends.

“But?”

He could tell that they wanted to say that it sounded just like one of his stories. And it did. God had turned out to be basically every fantasy and dream he’d ever had, all-in-one.

However he had not created a God in his image, although that was what his friends presumed.

Cause and effect are complex issues, and none of the children had quite worked out the logical progression which posited that a boy like Adam could only be the product of a universe that favoured his brand of make-believe.

Adam hadn’t worked it out either, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to explain anything.

He just had to wait.

Depositing the fire extinguisher by his seat (it was for another day) he stood still, listening intently. The three others looked at each other, and Adam put a finger across his lips.

The silence hung in the forest, broken only by birds, the soft rustle of the breeze through the leaves and the scurrying of small animals. But then… A weird grinding noise, and a sudden gust of wind.

And in the middle of the clearing stood a tall blue box.

“Whoa,” Wensleydale said, jaw dropping. “How’d you do that?”

“Not me. God,” Adam replied, superiorly. “Come along.”

They ran towards the box and then the door opened, golden light spilling out onto the forest floor.

“Hi kids,” God said, grinning widely. “So, Adam said you’d like to come for a ride in my spaceship?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: In 'The Leisure Hive' (Classic Who, Series 18, first serial) the Fourth Doctor looked like [this](https://drwhonovels.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/leisure_hive_2.jpg). Isn't it perfect? Pop him on a cloud in a white robe and he'd be Adam's very idea of God! (With thanks to Enevarim.)
> 
> 1\. For those who don't know the story of Samuel Pepys’ cheese: [A Man and His Cheese: Why Samuel Pepys Buried His Parmesan Cheese During The Great Fire of London](https://oddlyhistorical.wordpress.com/2014/04/10/man-cheese-samuel-pepys-buried-parmesan-cheese-great-fire-london/)
> 
> 2\. For those who (impossible as it seems) might not be familiar with Blackadder, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACnqI1l4I9s) is an example of one of Baldrick’s Cunning Plans.
> 
> ~
> 
> So, when writing this I realised that Adam and the Doctor are basically the same person. Or rather (as we all know) a huge chunk of the Doctor’s personality is an eleven year old boy who loves mischief and adventures.
> 
> QED


	13. The Sound of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Listen,’ said Crowley urgently, ‘the point is that when the bird has worn the mountain down to nothing, right, then—‘
>> 
>> Aziraphale opened his mouth. Crowley just _knew_ he was going to make some point about the relative hardness of birds’ beaks and granite mountains, and plunged on quickly.
>> 
>> ‘—then _you still won’t have finished watching_ The Sound of Music.’
>> 
>> Aziraphale froze.
>> 
>> ‘And you’ll enjoy it,’ Crowley said relentlessly. ‘You really will.’
> 
> The Good Omens book, p.55 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very basic version of this chapter was the first part of the fic that I wrote at all — in the comments of purplefringe’s dreamwidth. And it was so silly and ridiculous that I decided I had to write an actual fic. Suffice to say that the story I ended up writing was not something I had foreseen, neither in scope nor overall arc…
> 
> Also apologies for the long gap between chapters. Chapter 11 rather burned us out, and then I went on holiday (!!!) — and now work is descending (this is the busiest time of year). However I think I can fairly confidently say that there will be two more chapters (or one more chapter and an epilogue, we’ll see how it works out).
> 
> Endless thanks to Juliet for betaing (and pointing out the problem areas and making me fix them).
> 
> Also I finally added Promethia as co-author. (Which I should have done AGES ago. My bad.) The ridiculous idea for this thing is mine, but since I literally can’t write it without her (and goodness knows half of it is hers), I should have done this from the start.

♫ _The hiiiiiills are aliiiiiiive with the sound of muuuuuusic._ ♫

The Doctor wasn’t entirely sure when she’d first seen _The Sound of Music_ , but she had always loved it. It was her sort of film — fun and hopeful and with protagonists who stood up for what was right. And lots of brilliant music too; what more could anyone ask for? (She didn’t ask this question out loud.)

Every angel and demon (with two notable exceptions) had been crammed into the Great Hall of Heaven for the first time in more than 6000 years, angels on one side, demons on the other. It was quite an imposing sight, like a phantasmagoria of light and dark. (Had an outsider been there to appreciate it, they would have been thoroughly awestruck. The Doctor _had_ considered maybe bringing her ‘fam’ but the whole unfortunate ‘god thing’ would have been too difficult to explain, especially given how carefully she was trying to adhere to the flat team structure.)

The demons had been somewhat surprised at where they found themselves, and not just because they had been thrown out of Heaven six millennia ago. Though the demonic leadership had been on the asteroid with their archangel counterparts and thus had some small idea of what was going on, the Doctor had judged it best to leave the rest of the hordes frozen down in Hell while she got her bearings, lest they get up to mischief in the meantime.

Once all the angels had been seated, the Doctor teleported the demons straight into the Great Hall, defrosting them in the process. A scrolling chyron on the big screen informed them of the items on the agenda. 

In response the demons were acting simultaneously nonchalant and aggressive — like ten million rebellious teenagers who had been grounded and deprived of their phones — and they communicated their displeasure entirely through body language and sulky glares.

The angels for their part had filed in slowly and carefully, presided over by a gimlet-eyed and puffed-up Sandalphon, looking remarkably like a pigeon with ideas above its station. The angels had been stiff and uncomfortable and looked deeply worried, and as they entered the Doctor had caught panicked whispers speculating about God wanting to punish them all.

Now, however, the angels were singing with gusto, which was quite spectacular. A literal heavenly choir! Whether this was due to enthusiasm or relief (or maybe a combination thereof) was anyone’s guess, but the Doctor didn’t much care. 

_The Sound of Music_ was bound to cheer everyone, she was sure of it! 

It should be noted that the Doctor was well aware that some of the spectators would view the occasion as some kind of a punishment (the demons certainly so, if for no other reason than their avowed dissent), but ultimately that was their problem. The story held many a moral lesson for all whether they enjoyed it or not. And surely even the most disaffected demon would be able to find a mirror for themself. Which would in turn provide a good foundation for laying out the Ineffable Plan, no matter what Crowley said…

(The Doctor might have been feeling the _tiniest_ little bit defensive, although she would have denied it vehemently.)

  
  
  


♫ _She climbs a tree and scrapes her knee, her dress has got a tear_  
_She waltzes on her way to Mass and whistles on the stair_ ♫

Maria was the sort of main character that the Doctor loved whole-heartedly. Independent and a troublemaker, but with her heart in the right place… 

It didn’t occur to the Doctor that the song was a fairly accurate portrayal of herself in her youth. When identifying with characters from popular culture she tended to go for older, wise, and, of course, whimsical male characters, so she told herself that Maria would be a perfect companion.

This led to the Doctor momentarily considering whether she should ask Julie Andrews to travel with her. 

  
  
  


♫ _I have confidence the world can all be mine_  
_They’ll have to agree I have confidence in me_ ♫

Uriel watched the screen gravely but was unable to focus. She dearly wished that the Almighty wouldn’t test them like this. 

Uriel had been a steadfast follower her whole life, devoting her entire self to her role, but God’s return had not panned out as expected. Added to the shock of discovering that The Great Plan had somehow been _wrong_ (Uriel still wasn’t sure how or why) had been God’s complete lack of understanding or consideration. 

Like a student who had been set the wrong homework, Uriel felt that surely this was the teacher’s fault, not the students’. Except God had shouted at them a great deal, the main gist being that they should somehow have _known_ that it was wrong. The fact that Armageddon had been stopped at the last minute apparently didn’t make any difference. 

Worst of all, She had turned to Uriel and shaken Her head: ‘Even you, Uriel. I had thought that surely…’ She had bitten off the rest of the sentence, looking so disappointed that Uriel felt like she had been slapped.

Uriel still hadn’t come to terms with the conflicting emotions of mortification and resentfulness. When depositing them on the asteroid God had said ‘Think about the choices you made’, and Uriel had thought long and hard.

However she had come no nearer to any kind of understanding when the archangels had all, without warning, been transported into the Great Hall. They had blinked against the bright lights and the large screen in front of them, but when they tried speaking God had told them in no uncertain terms to sit and watch first — there would be discussions _later_ when She laid out Her Ineffable Plan.

Uriel had tried to catch God’s eye as she took her seat to check if maybe she had been forgiven yet. She still remembered the thrill of those private looks which had made her feel like she had a special bond with the Almighty that the others didn’t. But nothing.

On the screen Maria was waltzing along, singing about confidence, and to Uriel it felt like a whole new way to humiliate them. They had all been so confident, so sure they were doing the right thing, and yet...

At least Michael was on her side. (The less said about Gabriel the better.) But Michael caught the way Uriel had sought God’s eyes and had softly shaken her head, whispering ‘No point’. Uriel swallowed but indicated that she had understood. God was no longer on their side.

The Doctor for her part did not have the tiniest inkling of any of this inner turmoil. She was busy congratulating herself on her great idea and soaking up ‘the Confidence Song’. Not that she was lacking confidence in herself (Confidence Central, that was her!), but the unexpected meeting with Crowley and Aziraphale about the Ineffable Plan had been… a bit bruising, if she was honest. Some of the things Crowley had said had been — _well_. Not something she wanted to think about at this moment. Or at all. 

Thankfully taking Adam and his friends on a quick journey around the universe had restored her spirits, and she felt much better now. 

For the sake of this viewing she had pulled out her biggest sofa from the TARDIS which could easily seat ten. She had positioned herself in the middle with the archangels on one side and the demons’ top brass on the other. They were all doing an excellent job of pointedly ignoring each other (and her, for that matter), watching in stony-faced silence, but it didn’t bother her. She had enthusiasm enough for all of them. And they _would_ enjoy it. They really would.

The Doctor grinned widely as she shovelled more popcorn into her mouth and playfully slapped Gabriel’s knee.

He winced, but didn’t speak. When she offered him popcorn, he shook his head in horror.

Gabriel had not taken his scolding very well.

  
  
  


♫ _I am sixteen, going on seventeen…_ ♫

“I don’t understand,” Hastur sneered. His arms were folded, and he was glaring at the screen with ill-concealed disgust.

This was worse than the asteroid.

He hadn’t really understood the asteroid either, but at his words Beelzebub snapped:

“We _lozt_! All of uz! Angelz, demonz, Heaven and Hell. _We all lozt_ and God won! That’z it! This iz our punishment!”

Hastur wasn’t a cerebral sort of demon — to his mind ‘punishment’ meant fire or dismemberment or hitting someone over the head with a big hammer. Watching two humans swanning about and singing incomprehensible nonsense fell so far out of his area of expertise that you would have better luck punishing a goldfish with algebra.

“Still makes no sense,” Hastur griped resentfully.

He half-expected God to tell him to be quiet — annoying God being the only thing he was currently capable of — but instead She lit up and practically hit Herself over the head. “I forgot!”

She pulled a strange metal contraption from Her coat pocket and pressed a button.

The air seemed to shimmer and buckle… And then Ligur appeared by Hastur’s side. 

Ligur jolted and looked around, paranoid and panicked, a growl in his throat. Somewhere in the far, far distance God was babbling about ‘Always keeping a back-up’ and ‘good old Matrix data-slice’, but Hastur heard none of it.

Unfamiliar with exhilaration from a source other than destruction, Hastur had no idea what to do with the sudden wave of joy that (for the first time in his life) was flooding through him, and he reacted on pure instinct, throwing his arms around Ligur.

The demons in the rows behind the Dukes of Hell were treated to a moment of beautiful synchronicity as Hastur embraced Ligur at the self-same moment that Liesl threw her arms around Rolfe on the screen above them. 

Alas, that’s where the similarities both begin and end, and none of the demons who witnessed the event thought more of it than ‘So Hastur’s finally lost it completely’. 

Ligur (who had never experienced a hug in his life) jerked back violently, confused and defensive, and Hastur let go immediately:

“B-but how are you _here_? You were _destroyed_ …”

Hastur didn’t understand what had just happened (on any level: Ligur’s reappearance, the Almighty’s deeds, his own emotions — they were all quandaries he was incapable of processing) and his mind would battle with the problem for a long time. Forgiveness and grace were not in his vocabulary, but the Doctor (who was old and wise and occasionally managed to get something right) knew that actions spoke louder than words.

(After an admittedly awkward transition period in which they both struggled to get their heads around the concept, Hastur and Ligur would go on to excel in their new job roles. Sometimes their eyes would meet across a human soul in torment, and Hastur would smile a terrible smile and say: “Wonderfully satisfying doing the Lord's work, eh?” and Ligur would grunt in agreement.

They lived happily ever after.)

  
  
  


♫ _Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings_  
_These are a few of my favourite things_ ♫

If Michael had been asked to compose a list of her own favourite things, near the top would have been Captain von Trapp’s whistle. It had always struck her as practical and sensible, and she had incorporated whistles extensively in the operation of the angelic army. Organisation and control were key, and Michael was a big fan of both.

Michael’s current lack of control was something she was having difficulties adjusting to. 

At least they had been allowed to remove the strange pointy head coverings, but Michael still felt humiliated and indignant and wasn’t bothering to hide either emotion. How was she supposed to keep order now?

“I miss your wings,” God observed sadly. “Why do you hide them away? They’d definitely be on my list of favourite things….”

“Indeed Lord?” Michael replied, frostily.

“Look I've _told_ you, stop it with this 'Lord' business,” God said, a hint of annoyance in Her voice. “Never liked all that bowing and scraping. It's like the Castellan all over again."

"Who, Lord?" Uriel asked, and God looked momentarily struck. 

"No one. Um. Let's just watch, shall we?” God swiftly followed up, smiling an oddly forced smile.

Michael’s eyes narrowed, noting the reaction. _Interesting_. She shot Uriel a quick glance and they held each other's eyes for a moment. Uriel had seen it too; they were on the same page.

For the best part of six millennia they had remembered God as unfailing and omnipotent. And She had been gone for so long that it had been easy to justify anything they did by telling themselves that surely She would approve. The latter idea had been shattered by God’s return, and now the former seemed on shaky ground too. Well, the ‘unfailing’ part at least: maybe God was as omnipotent as ever, though the idea had ceased being comforting somewhere around the asteroid. However Michael knew an uncomfortable half-truth when she saw one, and God making slips like this — and needing to cover them up — was fascinating. She had no intention of _rebelling_ of course, but this insight, Michael figured, could be used as leverage.

Gabriel was no use. Just as on the asteroid he was quite simply _sitting_ there, still mute from the shock of having displeased the Almighty. (If Michael had been aware of traditional human gender roles — or gender at all — she would have rolled her eyes and muttered ‘Men!’)

God cleared Her throat and hurriedly tried to move on: “There's some woman in America who's watched this film like 700 times, so that's the record to beat!”

Uriel and Michael exchanged another look, this one despondent. Watching this movie was supposed to have been part of the celebrations after they won The War, not a never-ending punishment.

Gabriel visibly blanched, although he still didn’t speak.

Even the demons appeared disconcerted. “She iz a pro,” Beelzebub muttered to Dagon, but loud enough for Michael to overhear. “An abzolute pro. Lucifer was right all along.”

Michael noted the swift flare of the Almighty’s nostrils and hid a smirk. Yes, they were definitely onto something. And Ligur was back, so maybe some kind of… not _alliance_ , but some sort of behind-the-scenes common interest could be established. In case The Ineffable Plan was not to their liking.

Of course they had no idea the deception, destruction and shades of grey the Doctor was capable of (‘Only if necessary’, the Doctor would add, ‘not out of choice!’), but they were (in their own way) beginning to lose their faith, much as Aziraphale had… 

  
  
  


♫ _Let's start at the very beginning_  
_A very good place to start_  
_When you read you begin with A-B-C_  
_When you sing you begin with do-re-mi_ ♫

The Doctor, thrilled, leapt to her feet and turned to face the Hall. She had been waiting for this.

“OK everyone, time to shine!”

She picked up the guitar she’d brought (acoustic, _not_ electric) and began strumming along with Maria. She might have practised this on a regular basis, although she would never have admitted it. At one point she had gathered the ‘fam’ and tried to get a little sing-along going, but (much to her disappointment) they had all plain refused. Ryan had said a rude word and walked off, Graham had shaken his head and said _‘Sorry Doc, but ‘Doe a Deer’ wasn’t in the small print, I’m sure of it’_ and Yaz had tried to smile and then awkwardly explained that she was supposed to meet up with her sister for… a sister-ly thing. 

The Doctor knew when she was beaten and had from then on practised alone.

Her previous incarnation would probably have had a quadruple heart attack if he could see her, but hey ho. Mr Grumpy Attack Eyebrows was no longer her problem.

She half-wished that she could have brought Adam and his little friends along for this. They would have loved to dress up in old curtains, she was sure of it.

  
  
  


♫ _High on a hill was a lonely goatherd_  
_Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo_  
_Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd_  
_Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo_ ♫

Sandalphon was happy.

God was back, he loved _The Sound of Music_ , and everything was right with the world.

He yodelled along merrily with the goatherd, caught up in the puppetry on the screen.

When God had asked him what _he_ had been doing while She was gone, he had proudly explained how he had invented smiting and had excelled at keeping unruly angels in line.

God had looked at him silently for a long moment, more ineffable than he had ever seen Her, and had then sighed deeply and said that She would need to find him a new job, smiting was cancelled forever.

In response he had — a little shyly — asked if maybe he could be a goat herder? 

She had looked positively thrilled at this suggestion, declaring it to be a perfect idea, and would arrange it as soon as possible after the sing-along.

(Goat herding did not turn out how he expected — there was a lot less yodelling and a lot more manure — but in time he became one of the most successful goat herders in Mongolia, quietly reversing the effects of climate change in the process as well as (less quietly) bullying big multinational consortiums. But God had said that multinational consortiums deserved bullying, and he was all for giving wicked humans what they deserved. He also became the only angel ever to develop a taste for yak’s milk.

He managed to make Gabriel taste it once. One of Sandalphon’s Mongolian friends recorded the moment, and it became that year’s most watched video.)

  
  
  


♫ _Edelweiss, edelweiss_  
_Every morning you greet me_  
_Small and white_  
_Clean and bright_  
_You look happy to meet me_ ♫

Gabriel felt the Almighty poke him with Her elbow.

“There. That’s who you should be.”

He slowly turned his head to look at Her, still fighting the inclination to recoil. But he realised that the look on Her face had changed from disappointment and anger to something he couldn’t work out.

The Doctor’s thought process — always circuitous — was not actually all that odd this time. Captain von Trapp had been a good man, but he had isolated himself and become fixated on rules and roles to the detriment of everyone, himself included. This would seem to be Gabriel’s failing also, although he had taken it a lot further than the Captain… But the Doctor was an eternal optimist, and she was sure Gabriel was redeemable: his current evident shame was more than proof enough. The Doctor was certain he could be a decent leader (again) with a bit of the right encouragement, and she was totally going to explain this to him once the movie was over. For now she merely wanted to plant the seed.

Alas, Gabriel was not good at following the Almighty’s train of thought. Turning back to the screen he studied Captain von Trapp. What did She mean? Should he learn to play that strange instrument?

His eyes drifted to the guitar the Almighty had left propped up against the stage and felt resolve settle. If that's what She wanted, then that’s what he would do.

  
  
  


♫ _So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good night_  
_I hate to go and leave this pretty sight_ ♫

The Metatron glowered silently. It had been stationed in a small box (on top of which the Almighty’s popcorn had been placed) and it had — in vain — been trying to turn itself off since the start of the film. 

Alas, nothing was working.

“Lord,” it said eventually. “Why are you doing this?”

It caught and held Her eyes, knowing that _She_ knew that _it_ knew that it couldn’t be fobbed off with a glib reply or a little pep talk.

The Almighty grabbed more popcorn, Her cool, knowing glance not wavering.

"If you will go trying to bring about the end of the world and subverting _my_ Ineffable Plan, then you have to face the consequences."

A beat, then She added: "Love that word, 'ineffable'. Sounds all fluffy, don't you think? _Ineffable_. Ineffable. _In_ -effable. Hmmm. Why is it ‘in’-effable and not ‘un-effable’? Go on, search it up for me. Bit of etymology’s always interesting."

She grinned, and the Metatron glared.

“I am more than a glorified dictionary.”  
  
Indeed, the Metatron was an AI with a fair bit of personality and a nice line in cutting remarks, and it had rather enjoyed its role as The Voice of God and all-round oracle during the Almighty’s absence (the Burning Bush had been a particular highlight). So it added, 

“Such a shame you didn’t see fit to share your apparently marvellous ‘Ineffable Plan’ with me before you left. _Lord_. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so careless as to leave us with nothing but your brainstorming notes. Apologies, I meant ‘The Great Plan’. Names are tricky, aren’t they?”

It saw Her eyes flash and ran a quick analysis to gauge whether a smirk would be a wise move.

Before the calculations had completed She leaned forwards, whispering so no one else could hear.

“Look buster, you and me are going to have a talk later on, OK? But in case you didn’t know: you’re top of my naughty list, so if I were you I’d tread a bit more softly. Unless you’re desperate to spend a few centuries as a voting machine in Texas.”

The Metatron flickered in horror, but managed to steady itself and get a final shot in, as waspishly as it could. 

“Very well, I will bide my time. But allow me to ask: Why isn’t Lucifer here? Surely he should have been first in line for this torment?”

“Lucy-” the Almighty observed, distracted by the smallest of the children on the screen, “-is spending some quality time with his son.”

The Metatron fell silent again.

If it could have seen Lucifer in that moment, it would probably have felt that (all things being equal) _The Sound of Music_ was a preferable fate. 

Lucifer was still trapped in his jam jar, except now the jam jar was on Earth. Specifically, in the forest clearing that The Them used as their main base. The Doctor, at a bit of a loss about what to do with her demonic opponent, had on a whim asked Adam if he wanted to take charge of his father for a bit, and (to her surprise and delight) the boy had agreed.

The Them had been fascinated by Adam’s new pet. (Satan, being very small, had automatically acquired pet status.) They had debated at length as to whether they needed to feed him — as one had to do with stick insects or caterpillars — and if so, what might a demon eat? Eventually they had decided on bugs, and thus the Dark Lord of Hades found himself sharing the jam jar with a wriggly grub the size of his leg.

He was torn between fury at the insult and a strange backwards pride: the boy had a talent for the nefarious after all...

  
  
  


♫ _Climb every mountain_  
_Ford every stream_  
_Follow every rainbow_  
_Till you find your dream_ ♫

“What’s a ‘dream’?” Dagon asked, and Beelzebub shook their head.

“Unzure. Muzt be a human thing.”

Neither heard the Doctor’s sharp intake of breath. 

As a matter of fact they were doing their best to ignore the Almighty as much as possible. 

Where the archangels were rather shell shocked, the demons found themselves exactly where they had expected to be in the event of God’s return: being punished.

And if they were honest, they were quite impressed with Her actions so far. (They didn’t _like_ what She was doing, but She had form.)

Of course everyone knew that God was omnipotent — and Satan had often gone on at length that they didn’t know the half of what She was capable of — but witnessing how effortlessly She had moved everyone around without so much as breaking a sweat was… Well, it made Dagon and Beelzebub feel that, although they had been thoroughly blind-sided, they had lost to a master. 

Their current predicament was not ideal, but on the plus side Heaven was neither dank nor damp, and the sofa was rather comfortable. Although their biggest advantage was something they thought the Almighty just might have overlooked entirely: they were _back in Heaven_. And judging by the demeanour of the archangels, their opponents were no happier with the current state of affairs than the demons were. Countless nefarious possibilities spun out in front of them — they might not have imagination, but they _did_ have 6000 years’ worth of rebellion and diabolical scheming to draw on. And if they were going to be watching this movie 700 times, they also had plenty of time to plot. 

(Hastur, still disgustingly happy as a result of Ligur’s return, was going to be of no use. But then he was a blunt instrument at the best of times.)

No, Beelzebub and Dagon would have to manage alone, and they applied themselves to it with furious concentration: there had to be a reason the Almighty had chosen this _particular_ film. And if they could decode it, they might have a better chance against her.

They had no idea that in the very next seat, their offhand remarks were accomplishing something far beyond what they could have ever schemed themselves.

Because the Doctor — although doing her best not to show how the exchange impacted her — was unable to stop her hand from shaking a little as she reached for more popcorn. 

_‘How can they have **no dreams**?’_ she thought, her mind (all of its own accord — being clever had serious downsides sometimes) abruptly deciding to reassess everything she knew. 

The most literal answer was: _Because they don’t sleep_. She remembered this, but not needing much sleep herself hadn’t really considered the consequences. 

But that was only one side — because the Mother Superior was not talking about literal dreams, but hopes and wishes. And did her angels and demons have these? Did they even understand the _concept?_ Their sole guide to life for millennia had been The Great Plan which they had followed to the letter, caught up in ‘winning the war’ and nothing else.

 _Because_ , her mind relentlessly reasoned, _their world contained nothing else._

And (maybe worst of all) this meant that it was all her fault.

Of _course_ they had followed The Great Plan — they didn’t know that alternatives were _possible_. Their world was binary: follow God or reject God, with no other options. The glorious diversity of Earth and its humanity was something they had quite literally stayed above, the very _idea_ of plurality anathema to them. 

The Doctor felt hitherto unexamined certainties crumble under the onslaught of her own logic, as she forced herself to face the reality around her, piece by inconvenient piece. 

Ironically she ended up arriving at much the same conclusion that Aziraphale had as she eyed up the alarming emptiness at the centre of the angels’ and demons’ world. 

No wonder they had been so shaken by Aziraphale and Crowley, the only two who had learned and grown the way she had envisaged for them all to develop. The independence and autonomy of the renegades must have been a terrifying thing to behold. (By the Skaro degradations, had she created… fundamentalists? Her hearts sank even further.)

No wonder Crowley had been so angry. _This_ was what he’d been trying to explain. She finally understood, and it felt like yet another insult. Like her past self had popped up to deliver the ultimate blow.

(Crowley sneering: “Your plan is shit because you live in a bloody… _fantasy world_! Look, it’d be fine if they were all… dolphins! Gorillas! Anything but what they are! How about… white mice! Huh… You maybe wanna turn them into white mice? Because that could work. Never mind. But Heaven and Hell _as they are_ — you’ll make things worse, because they are _incapable_ of understanding what you are asking them to do! And if you can’t see that, you’re an even worse God than you were when you first created us.”)

On the screen the Mother Superior was singing, the song heart-stoppingly beautiful, and the Doctor surreptitiously glanced left and right, noting how serious everyone else was. Did they understand any of what was happening? Did they understand Maria’s anguish, the advice she was being given? 

She suddenly doubted it.

The Doctor very much disliked her new insight. She hated being wrong, hated that she had misjudged, that her plan had been wrong, that all her assumptions were null and void. Usually epiphanies like this were a good thing — they accounted for about 93% of her improvised plans — but this time it meant that she had to eat a large piece of humble pie, and she didn’t like the taste one bit.

Despondently she considered the suggestions Crowley had made… There was no denying that he had been on the money. His proposals suddenly made a lot more sense. 

At the time she had been offended on several levels, not the least the assertion that she didn’t know the creatures she had herself created! How _dare_ he? 

But looking around, she knew she had misjudged, and done so on a large scale. She had never been honest with her creation, and thus they had never been able to develop like they should, never seen the world like it was. 

Which left her with a single question: What now? 

Well, she had The New And Improved Ineffable Plan that Crowley had proposed (and Adam voted in favour of), so despite her reluctance she supposed that’s what she would have to work with. She didn’t have the energy or time to think of something different. 

Of course, this was still dodging the central question: Should she tell them the truth?

Climb every mountain indeed. But this was a particularly annoying and difficult mountain and she was very cross with it. Why couldn’t she just have some nice Cybermen to defeat instead? She grabbed more popcorn and sank back into the sofa with a sigh. Why was nothing ever easy?

(Exactly 728 days and 37 minutes after the Doctor's sudden realisation, Michael would look up from the schematics she was studying and comment to Dagon across the table: 'Why is nothing ever easy?'

Dagon looked around at the bustling office, angels and demons to-ing and fro-ing and the day’s numbers ticking over on the display, and thought for a moment. ‘We’d be bored?’

A touch of a smile touched Michael’s mouth. ‘Point taken.’

On the wall behind them ‘Climb Every Mountain’ was stencilled in gold lettering. Neither paid it a blind bit of notice.)

  
  
  


♫ _Perhaps I had a wicked childhood_  
_Perhaps I had a miserable youth_  
_But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past_  
_There must have been a moment of truth_ ♫

In the very very back row, in the middle, were a demon and an angel. They were doing their best to seem to ignore each other. Their hands almost touched. 

They had come in late from opposite sides; the demon was female in appearance and wearing a severe purple dress and sunglasses, the angel had teeth to be reckoned with and what (to a critical eye) looked like a large and badly fitting wig. (Thankfully there were no critical eyes, every angel and demon more concerned with their own misery.)

The two had exchanged a few words as the movie started, quietly muttering under their breaths, heads leaning together.

‘Are we actually doing this? I know you don’t trust Her, but we could just come back in a few hours’ time once the film is over…’ 

The demon had smirked: ‘ _Angel_. Now would be an _excellent_ time to learn how to enjoy the suffering of others.’

In response the angel had merely glared and sat up straighter with angry determination. 

They had been silent since.

However, as Maria and the Captain’s love declarations unfolded on the screen the angel abruptly grasped the demon’s hand.

Bandstands held a heavy history for them.

♫ _For here you are, standing there, loving me_  
_Whether or not you should_  
_So somewhere in my youth or childhood_  
_I must have done something good_ ♫

The look they subsequently shot each other was more than a bit soppy, but since no one was paying any attention to them it didn’t matter… 

And thus, like in every cinema that has ever existed, there was a couple on the back row making out, so caught up in each other that they forgot all about where they were, and conveniently hidden by the darkness from prying eyes.

(If Warlock Dowling had seen them, he would have been thrilled to have several of his childhood theories confirmed. He would also have been grossed out by the snogging, but such is life.)

Indeed by the time the credits rolled, a good portion of their respective disguises had become the casualties of amorous hands, and they parted, blinking under the sudden bright lights, and slowly realised that they were no longer unnoticed… 

A murmur was going round the Hall, the entire crowd turning, and they found themselves on the receiving end of the shocked stares of twenty million angels and demons.

At the very front, the last to turn was the Archangel Gabriel himself. He staggered to his feet and pointed a shaky finger at them, vindication blazing in his eyes: 

“I _KNEW_ IT!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14 October: So sorry about the long gap, but work has been... very very busy (for both of us). However we have a draft and should hopefully be able to update within the next few weeks.
> 
> Thank you for bearing with us. <3


	14. The Ineffable Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _To love and admire anything outside yourself is to take one step away from utter spiritual ruin._  
>  C.S.Lewis: Mere Christianity, [Chapter 8: The Great Sin](https://www.fellowshipofthemartyrs.com/articles/60-spiritual-tuneup/191-mere-christianity-chapter-8-qthe-great-sinq-cs-lewis-)
> 
>  _DOCTOR: I've got plans crashing through my brain all the time. You want a plan? Come to me. Identifying which plan's going to work, that's the tricky bit._  
>  Can You Hear Me? (S12.07)
> 
>  _ASHILDR: Someone has to look out for the people you abandon. Who better than me? I'll be the patron saint of the Doctor's leftovers._  
>  The Woman Who Lived (S9.06)
> 
> ~
> 
> Or:
> 
> Satan discovers atheism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Q: In the book Golden Girls was Crowley's favourite TV show. Is that also TV Crowley's favourite or does he have a current TV show that he prefers?  
>  Neil Gaiman: I think he’d love The Good Place._  
> ([x](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/185645397861/in-the-book-golden-girls-was-crowleys-favourite))
> 
> There will be spoilers for the ending of The Good Place, sorry. Also for the [Doctor Who] S12 opener, _Spyfall_.
> 
> As for what Heaven and Hell are like, I was inspired by [this post](https://everything-rhymes.tumblr.com/post/612056324325441536/good-omens-headcanon-heaven-and-hell-are-equally) by **everything_rhymes**.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> So, looking at when we posted Chapter 13 it has been… almost four months?? Trying to work out where that time went, I know that work ate up August and September, rendering them a blur. Covid, the US election and the general state of 2020 definitely affected things as well, not to mention the fact that this chapter _is almost 10k_! Turns out The Ineffable Plan was… complicated. I sincerely hope you’ll think it worth waiting for though. Endless thanks to Promethia for being generally amazing despite the size and length of this thing, and to Juliet for sweeping in and tidying it all up.
> 
> And thank you to all of _you_ for your patience and for going on this journey with us — we are so close to the end! Only an epilogue still to come…

Once upon a time, a very, very long time ago — before Earth, before the Fall, when the universe was empty and bare and without even a single Starbucks — the Archangel Michael had asked the Almighty a question:

“Lord, what is our _purpose_?”

The Doctor had flubbed the answer.

If a person with an analytical mind were to look at the whole issue objectively, they could argue that all the ensuing troubles could be traced back to that one moment.

The Doctor was that person with an analytical mind, and she didn’t like it one bit.

~o~

It was a crisp and clear autumn day. The sky was that indefinable blue that poets spend lifetimes trying to describe, the air was cool enough to just about warrant a scarf, the leaves were incandescent, and Starbucks was doing a roaring trade in pumpkin spice lattes.

In Central Park, New York, old men were playing checkers and grumbling about the weather, politics, ‘young people these days’, their wives’ fussing and a whole host of other issues — in short, they were enjoying themselves enormously. None of them noticed the tall, dark, hooded figure hovering to the side, its scythe glinting in the bright sun. None, except the oldest. He was known to everyone as Bob, but he had been baptised Roberto Angelo Carillo Espinoza in a tiny dusty village church in Mexico nearly 95 years previously. He had lived ‘a long and colourful life’ as the saying goes, and if this were a different story we could go into which colours exactly, and why. Many of them were murky. For our purposes what matters is that all his living had turned him into a grumpy old bastard, the kind who thinks that the world is out to get him and is determined not to let it.

People claimed that Bob had lived as long as he had through sheer stubbornness and they weren’t entirely wrong. But lately he had been feeling… tired. (Possibly ‘tired’ is not quite the right term. A more accurate description would be ‘fed up’. He was fed up with his aching joints and his loss of hearing and the cataracts that made the world go fuzzier and more indistinct every day. Not to mention the general state of the world which was just a travesty.) He saw the black-clad form and shook his head. _Typical_. Wouldn’t even be allowed to die in bed. Smiling wryly, he looked across at his checkers partner and revived an old theological argument:

“Bill. How much money are you willing to put down on God being a lady? Cause trust me, I will haunt you to collect-”

He never finished the sentence since at that moment a young blonde woman appeared at his side.

“Don’t make bets you’re sure to lose!” she said in an unexpected British accent, but he barely heard her. As he looked into her eyes a strange numbness began to take hold of his insides, although the numbness in his chest was nothing compared to the unusual feelings the blonde woman was eliciting in his soul. Since he wasn’t sure he even _had_ a soul, this was confusing on several levels simultaneously.

“Don’t worry mate,” she said gently. “Everything is going to be fine, _I promise_.”

“Well I’ll be damned…” he whispered, his voice sounding strange and feeble to his own ears, and the mysterious Lady (he couldn’t say the name he knew to be true, not even in his mind) smiled widely, her eyes as mischievous as any he’d seen. 

“Don’t count on it,” the Lady smiled. “You see, there have been some changes…”

He was still staring in blank incredulity as darkness engulfed him.

~o~

The Doctor grasped the frail old body as it fell. The old man’s friend on the other side of the table jumped to his feet and a small crowd quickly gathered. Someone rang for an ambulance, others worried about Bob’s wife, and the Doctor stepped back, a perception filter easily slipped on. She looked around and then waved eagerly to the hooded figure who was about to leave.

“Hang on! Wait! I was wondering…”

The figure turned and she could feel its eyes on her. It was exhilarating and oddly familiar — Death was a daily companion, but not usually available for a chat.

“So — I bet you must get this all the time, but-” She grinned widely. “How about a game of chess?”

~o~

Much to Bob’s surprise there were actual pearly gates. And what appeared to be St Peter sitting at a small desk outside. It looked so much like a cliché that he was immediately suspicious.

“You St Peter?” he asked gruffly. The question was probably superfluous, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole thing was some kind of trick. And he disliked pranks intensely.

“Ah yes, that’s me. But it’s just ‘Simon’. Only a simple fisherman, not keen on these fancy titles they like to throw around. _Now_. You must be Bob.”

St Peter shuffled a lot of papers around and put on a pair of spectacles as he tried to read.

“New directives you see. Big shake-up everywhere, but that’s always the way, eh? Been doing this job for the best part of two millennia, but as Petronius said, all new situations are met with reorganisation1. Although to be fair, the Almighty Herself came and explained it all. She even gave me this little ceramic frog2. There seemed to be some sort of joke that I didn’t quite get, but that’s the Almighty for you, isn’t it? Ineffable and all that. Anyway, let’s see, what am I supposed to do with you…”

St Peter took his sweet time, checking and cross-checking, and Bob felt his temper rise.

He stepped forward, ready to demand things get a move on (the way he always did — it didn’t always work, but at least it made everyone else miserable too). The moment he did so, however, a trap door opened in the cloud he was standing on and he fell down into murky grey nothingness. 

Damned after all, he thought. The satisfaction of being right made him smile.

~o~

CHESS?

“M-hm!” The Doctor was already pulling out a box from her pocket before setting out the pieces. “Although I’m not sure what we should play _for_ … I know the done thing would be to play for my life, but I like this face and it’s still quite new. Maybe we could play for fun?”

There was a pause.

FUN?

“You must have heard of fun?”

Death hovered for a moment, then took a seat.

The Doctor grinned widely.

“This is going to be brilliant!”

~o~

_Adam and his human pets were playing a game of some kind which involved a ball. The King of Hell sat in his jar and watched. He could not ascertain any apparent rules, but the one with the long hair declared itself the winner. Adam did not smite it. The King of Hell sighed, disappointed._

~o~

Hell wasn’t what Bob expected. Or maybe it was.

After falling for so long that he gave up on ever hitting anything, he landed in a grey, damp, dingy waiting room. The chairs were plastic with uneven legs and impossible to sit on without getting a cramp and severe back pain. The floor was dirty and sticky. On the low melamine tables were piles of ancient magazines which were ignored by most of the terminally bored people populating the seemingly endless room, the seats disappearing off into the distance where they were swallowed by darkness. A sense of hopelessness overlaid everything like a film of grime. Although that may just have been the smell of stale smoke.

After getting to his feet and brushing himself down Bob was approached by a demon — or at least what Bob presumed to be a demon. It looked very much like some of the youngsters he’d seen in Central Park who he had spent many hours griping about. It was male in appearance but wearing make-up, had eyelashes that were far too long and hair that looked like horns. It also carried a clipboard and smiled the sort of smile that instantly set Bob’s teeth on edge. The sort of professional smile that meant that no matter what anyone said, the reply would be ’Sorry. Have a nice day’. 

(It’s the sort of small daily irritation that is generally attributed to the demon Crowley, except in this instance the originator was Doris in Accounts, who had spent several millennia driving her fellow demons mad with those five simple words. It had earned her a special commendation.)

The torment started with forms twenty pages long which had to be filled out in triplicate with a pen that either refused to work or leaked all over.

“Why am I even doing this?” he grumbled when he handed the papers over to the demon in charge. The nameplate on the desk told him that this was ‘Dagon. Lord of the Files. Master of Torments’. Bob was not impressed. The look Dagon gave him indicated that the feeling was mutual.

“We need the paperwork to be in order so we can process you correctly. And since we have just had a major reorganisation, this will take longer than usual.” The demon cast a quick glance at the papers. “You have missed off parts 12, 17, 53a, 54, 73, 89c and 234b. And… all of the rest will need to be re-done — you have gone outside the boxes.”

Unceremoniously, Dagon dumped the forms into a bin and handed him a new set.

Bob stared in mute rage at the immutable face in front of him, the strange glisten of what looked like scales, the faint smell of rotten fish.

“I’m not doing it. You can’t make me!”

“Suit yourself,” Dagon grinned placidly, revealing fang-like teeth, and turned away.

Bob spent the equivalent of 3 years sitting defiantly in Hell’s foyer before the combination of the randomly flickering fluorescent lights and the incessant irritation of his fellow damned souls drove him to fill out the forms. 

It took him forty-six goes before they were deemed acceptable.

~o~

_Satan spent his days either in the forest or on Adam's windowsill, except when Adam decided ‘Lucy’ was ‘coming out’. Adam's 'parents' thought he was a toy, and simply sent each other looks when Adam decided that the pint sized demon was going to live in his pocket for a day. Satan appreciated the vantage point, but not the fact that he became immobilised whenever he was removed from the jar, eliminating all chance of escape. The humiliation stung, but Satan wasn’t ready to give up just yet._

_He had dedicated most of his life to corrupting humanity, one boy shouldn’t be that difficult…_

~o~

YOU CREATED THIS WORLD.

The Doctor pulled a face.

“Yeah. But.” Her hand hovered over a bishop, before resting her index finger on it and looking up into the blackness below the hood.

“I didn’t create _you_. Not sure how you are even… a thing. Not that you’re a _thing_ , you’re a person, probably. But… I have no idea where you came from. It’s very odd. Which is another reason I wanted to talk.”

Death didn’t reply, and after a second the Doctor added: “Actually, here’s a question: Do you show up for _every_ death? Like, do you do animals too?”

~o~

_Adam was very good at getting in trouble. His father, the Angel of Darkness (as he sometimes liked to think of himself), did his utmost to encourage this trait._

~o~

Dagon slowly scanned through the papers, tilted their head and then passed the papers to a demon Bob hadn’t seen before. The new demon was small and unsmiling and had sores on their face and flies buzzing around their head.

“It would zeem to all be in order, yez,” the new-comer said, then looked up at Bob with blank non-interest.

“You can take a seat again.”

Bob was sure he’d misheard.

“What do you mean?”

“Iz your hearing defective? Zsit. Down.”

“But.” He could feel anger beginning to take hold. “Filling out the paperwork means that you get out of here!”

He wasn’t sure where exactly people went, presumably off to be tortured with fire and pitchforks in some cavern, but by this point he didn’t much care. He just wanted to _leave_. Had seen plenty of other souls being whisked off upon completing their paperwork (and it hadn’t escaped his notice that everyone else seemed to have shorter and easier forms than he had). There had been a smug lawyer type who’d filled out his 1 (one) page form in less than five minutes and had immediately been taken away. And there had been a tall, nervous woman with frizzy hair who’d asked everyone else for help, causing every soul in her vicinity to move further away, and even she had been let through.

Dagon met his eyes with an unconcerned smile. “We run a bespoke service. Your fate is yours and yours only. You will stay here. Remember, this is Hell. Surely you have read the posters?”

They pointed towards the grubby posters which proclaimed ‘You DON’T MATTER’, ‘WE HATE YOU’ and ‘GIVE UP NOW’ — and for the first time pure naked despair began to swallow Bob up. Refusing to do the papers had been a way to claim agency, but inherent in his defiance had been the understanding that this was a _transaction_. He’d given in and filled in the forms, but that meant that they had to fulfil their part of the bargain — send him onto whatever place was prepared for him. The idea that _this was all there was_ , that he would spend eternity in this nowhere place, was a thought so terrifying that his mind couldn’t quite encompass it.

Desperate, he made to launch himself across the counter, but Dagon simply lifted their hand and he was flung back onto the floor.

“Try that again and we’ll get Hastur to pay a visit.”

It was at that moment, lying on the floor and overcome with despondency, that he finally spotted the kitten.

~o~

_‘Old Nick’ had thought himself an expert manipulator, but every attempt at subverting Adam fell flat. The boy was quite simply uninterested in world domination or destruction in any way shape or form._

_Old Nick spent a long time pondering how his most important project could have gone so wrong._

~o~

THERE ARE FEW THINGS UNKNOWN TO ME, BUT ONE OF THEM IS THE INEFFABLE PLAN.

“Ah,” the Doctor replied, resting her chin on her hands. “Well, it’s… A thing. It’s _like_ a plan, but with more ineffability.”

The Great Plan had been an unusual occurrence for the Doctor — for once she had planned something carefully and in great detail (for _her_ , that is. Most people wouldn’t consider a children’s Bible with Post It notes a plan at all). The Ineffable Plan on the other hand hadn’t actually been a plan as such, more of an idea (the Doctor had a lot of ideas), and owed its existence to the renegade angel and demon, although they had been blissfully unaware of this. 

The Doctor had watched their interactions in Eden and inspiration had struck: Watching over humanity could be their full time job — ‘Crawly’ would undoubtedly continue to do wily things, Aziraphale would in turn thwart him and cosmic balance would be preserved. She had immediately issued orders that Aziraphale was to stay on Earth, figuring that Lucifer would make sure to keep ‘Crawly’ around also.

Thinking it over she didn't see why what worked for those two shouldn't work for the rest of the angels and demons too — knowing the rate at which humans would begin to populate the Earth, there’d be more than enough for 20 million celestial and occult creatures to do. And being around humans was bound to get them invested, the same way she had herself grown to love the species. In no time at all (comparatively) the Nethersphere would be empty and she’d be able to pop it back in a cupboard, problem solved. (Except for Lucy, but she was sure she could figure something out for him too. If the worst came to the worst she could always suggest that he run a Fortune 500 company.)

It was shortly afterwards, when humanity still consisted of only a few tiny villages, that she had taken off to replenish her tea stocks. She had decided to roll out her new changes when she returned; there was no point in doing it before the humans had increased in numbers.

Of course nothing had worked out like she had hoped, but the bones of the plan had been good, she was sure of it.

Except the two creatures who had proved her _right_ — the ones who had inspired the plan in the first place and who had gone on to defy Heaven and Hell in order to save humanity, becoming invested in their charges the way she had always envisaged, the perfect example to hold up to prove that the plan worked — one of _them_ had told her that her plan was ‘shit’.

She had not been amused.

However she was not explaining all of that to Death. 

~o~

_One day Adam's 'dad' decided to take the boy out fishing. As they left Adam snatched up ‘Lucy’ and popped him in his shirt pocket._

_Once the Prince of Darkness had grasped the purpose of the trip he momentarily wondered if he'd be used as bait— a suitably diabolical scheme he had to admit, although with definite personal downsides._

_However as the day wore on he almost wished he had been... the dullness was seemingly endless. But finally, towards the end of the afternoon, Adam caught a fish. His palpable joy and excitement — all of it aimed at his 'dad' — set The Prince of Darkness’ teeth on edge._

~o~

Bob had heard the occasional pathetic meowing ever since arriving, but had presumed it a trick of his mind. Childhood memories reasserting themselves, and he wasn’t about to go down _that_ path.

(Roberto had been five years old when a stray cat had given birth in their barn. The kittens were the smallest, softest creatures he had ever seen and he had been enchanted. Unfortunately, his father had discovered them not long after and had taken decisive action in the shape of a large sack and immersion into water. Roberto had pleaded and cried, and had subsequently suffered from nightmares for months afterwards. But he had learned his lesson.)

In this moment however, looking at the tiny, helpless, drenched creature cowering under a discarded magazine, he felt something brew inside that he couldn’t put a name to.

He reached out and picked up the kitten, cradling it to his chest, and walked back up to the desk.

“You made a mistake,” he said.

Dagon lifted their eyes slowly.

“Pardon?”

“I was not a good man. I accept that punishment is my lot. But this tiny mite was not even a week old when it was killed. It shouldn’t be here.”

Dagon turned to their fly-ridden fellow demon, who slowly shook their head:

“It worked. Incredible.”

Dagon reached out and pressed a button, and a moment later a severe-looking young woman in a beautifully cut suit appeared. She was clean, poised and somehow _ethereal_ and looked so out of place that Bob momentarily worried that he was hallucinating.

“I am the Archangel Uriel,” she said. “Follow me. Bring the… furry thing.”

~o~

_‘Why did you agree to keep me?' The Evil One asked one day. Adam was a teenager by now and simply shrugged. 'Dunno'._

_The Evil One glared. 'You wanted nothing to do with me, and then suddenly you were telling the Almighty that you're happy to have me around. **Why**?’ _

_Adam studied him for a long moment. 'Because you were little and not scary any longer. And I was curious.'_

_The Evil One tilted his head. 'And has your curiosity been satisfied?' Adam shrugged again. 'S'pose. Evil is just boring.'_

_‘ **Boring**?’ The Evil One replied, incredulous. 'Yeah,' Adam replied. 'Boring. God was **fun** , but you're just grumpy all the time.’_

~o~

As Death pondered his next move, the Doctor’s thoughts (like an unhelpful boomerang) returned yet again to the meeting with Adam, Crowley and Aziraphale… 

“Go on then, what’s _your_ plan?” she had asked Crowley. Aziraphale had been taking notes as the Doctor explained her own Ineffable Plan, and Adam had eagerly been asking follow-up questions. The Doctor was feeling rather pleased with herself (‘The fact that you are here proves that it works!’ had been her parting shot) and felt certain that Crowley couldn’t come up with something better. 

Crowley leaned back, his cold reptilian eyes studying her like a snake about to strike. The Doctor had faced down unspeakable terrors for thousands of years and thus tried not to smile.

“What about the dead?” Crowley asked.

The Doctor blinked. This was a whole new level of non-sequitur.

“What do you mean?”

“Human souls. Heaven and Hell have been collecting them ever since Cain killed Abel. Tempting and saving, trying our best to get the most, like coins in a Mario game. _Why_?”

If any of them had thought to record the moment, they would have caught an unusual sight — the Doctor not just unable to answer a question, but also unable to think of a way to deflect.

Having done her best not to contemplate the Nethersphere’s original purpose, she had never thought to turn off its most fundamental function. She had returned from her sojourn to the unhappy realisation that the Nethersphere was now full of human souls ( _again_ ) — 6000 years’ worth of humanity’s dead, living out whatever afterlife that her imagination-challenged angels & demons had bothered to think up. 

The discomfort of the whole thing was almost physical. A Matrix for Time Lords re-purposed for humans was wrong in ways she found difficult to formulate, even without bringing in Missy’s sick experiment stocking up on souls to use in her cyber army. But it had slipped to the bottom of her To-Do list, as she focussed on more immediate issues. She had certainly not imagined anyone _asking_.

“Just part of the original programme that never got updated,” she eventually replied, doing her best to sound nonchalant. “But setting them all free is dead simple — it’s literally just pressing a button.”

She didn’t add that she had done this before. Souls trapped in a facsimile afterlife was something she came across on a fairly regular basis.

“Unbelievable,” Crowley replied, shaking his head. It looked like he was about to say something, but then he glanced at Adam and instead sat up and leaned forward.

“So. My plan. Have you watched _The Good Place_?”

The Doctor’s brow furrowed… She had watched it, yes — well she’d watched _some_ of it, but then she had been interrupted by an alien sheep invasion and one thing led to another. Long story short, she'd not gotten far. But she had watched enough to have an opinion. 

"Your plan is _moral philosophy_? An interesting choice for a demon...”

At this point both Adam and Aziraphale were looking lost and Crowley had to explain in more detail. And (damn him. Again) it _was_ a clever plan: 

Heaven and Hell working together to progress souls _through_ the afterlife, allowing the souls to improve, find peace, and to move on if and when they wished. And, perhaps most importantly, the two sides working _together_ — innovating, collaborating, evolving — rather than continuing their endless, pointless struggle and in the process destroying Earth to settle their petty scores.

Adam was clearly impressed, especially since Crowley declared that if the angels and demons were sent to Earth they’d probably just carry on fighting. Adam shook his head firmly and said his friends would be very unhappy if he helped to start another war. 

The Doctor tried to explain that they wouldn’t _fight_ , they’d be living _alongside_ humans — like Crowley and Aziraphale — which was the point at which Crowley had lost it, yelling that her plan was terrible.

The Doctor’s jaw had dropped in shock and anger at the outburst (not to mention the accusation that she didn’t know her own creation!), but at that moment the bell rang and Adam (surreptitiously tucking the fire extinguisher under his blazer) said how it was lunch time and he needed to go now.

“But which plan do you choose?” Aziraphale asked anxiously, and Adam’s brow furrowed, before doing a swift eeny-meeny-miny-mo, and landing on Crowley. 

“Well, that’s settled then,” the angel beamed, and the Doctor mumbled something non-committal. After what Crowley had said, she didn’t feel like being co-operative — seriously, who thought it a good decision to delegate something this important to an eleven year old? Ridiculous. She'd stick to her own plan. 

~o~

_Teenage!Adam fell in love, and Lucy (by now resigned to the name) unexpectedly found himself a confidante since Adam needed someone to talk to and Lucy was there. Unhappily for Lucy seeing his son thus reduced was sheer torture. A childhood attachment to the world the boy had grown up in was something Lucy could rationalise (if not condone), but this unwelcome and untimely evidence of the most basic (and compromising) of human traits was a blow he wasn’t sure how to recover from._

_The boy had been created to **destroy the world** , not to fall into rhapsodies over an utterly insignificant girl-child’s face. He should be hankering for his father’s approval, not spending untold hours agonising over how to talk to a creature he could wipe from existence with a flick of his wrist. The boy’s human nature had until then been something Lucy thought himself capable of utilising, but he was now beginning to have genuine fears that Adam’s humanity had given him an inherent bent towards ‘love’ that Lucy would not be able to eradicate. _

~o~

Death appeared to be tilting his head.

I AM FAMILIAR WITH THE GOOD PLACE.

The Doctor was momentarily distracted by the image of Death on a sofa with a bowl of popcorn having Netflix marathons. She wondered if he had friends to watch with. Before she could ask, he followed up:

IS THAT WHAT YOU HAVE NOW IMPLEMENTED? SOME KIND OF PURGATORY?

The Doctor twirled a knight.

“Kinda? Well, moral philosophy was obviously _not_ going to happen, I don’t think any of the angels or demons would even get _close_ to understanding the concept. But. My people have something called a ‘Confession Dial’. It’s a sort of post-death mechanism… _thing_ where the person can confront their ‘demons’ — so to speak — and, well, make their peace. I think the concept is feasible and the humans will then have the option of leaving completely, once they’re tired of the afterlife. It’ll be a _lot_ of work, but if Heaven and Hell put in half the effort they did in preparing for their armageddon they should be fine. Bob is the first one to go through the new process and we have a few different scenarios ready and waiting depending on how he responds. But if it _works_ we can use it as a base for how to reform the whole system.”

She _didn’t_ mention how she had essentially discarded Crowley’s plan altogether until her exceedingly unwelcome epiphany during _The Sound of Music_. No one (apart from the four of them) knew that there had originally been two plans, and she was keen to keep it that way. 

Death sat in silence for a moment.

INTERESTING. I APPROVE. GOOD LUCK WITH BOB.

“Thanks,” the Doctor smiled. “Oh and checkmate.”

Death’s attention immediately snapped back to the board.

YOU CHEATED.

The Doctor did her best goofy grin.

“Yeah, got a bit of a habit of cheating death, probably should have mentioned that sooner. So… I know I said we should play for fun, but I have a question: Since I’ve won, could I have someone back that I got killed?”

~o~

_The boy was getting dressed in his ‘best’ clothes, silent and strangely subdued. Lucy had noticed a change over the past few weeks, but since Adam hadn’t been communicating Lucy had left him to his misery — whatever the cause, it was gratifying to watch. But by now Lucy was starting to become curious. ‘What happened?’ he asked as casually as he could, and Adam briefly looked up at him before focussing on putting on his shoes. ‘Grandad died’._

_There was a pause, then Adam walked over to the glass jar, studying Lucy and looking very lost: ‘Why did he die?’_

_Lucy eyed him levelly. ‘It’s what humans **do**. They’re incredibly good at it, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ _

_Adam swallowed. ‘But why… why couldn’t I **stop** it?’ _

_Lucy took a slow deep breath. This was it. This was the moment. He held his son’s eyes: ‘This is the world you chose. If you don’t like it...’_

_He left the sentence hanging, and Adam stood in silence for a long moment. Then he got a determined look in his eyes and unscrewed the lid. For a moment Lucy felt sheer undiluted hope and euphoria, but then Adam put him in his pocket. ‘You’re coming to the funeral. After all, the whole family will be there. And you’re family too.’_

~o~

Was it even possible for Death to undo his own work? What exactly were the rules? Considering the peculiar nature of this universe — the angels, the demons, the miracles, the fairy tale truisms — it would _seem_ logical to be able to get someone back through something as clichéd as winning a game of chess against Death, but-

Before the Doctor could think any further, Death replied.

NO 

The Doctor sighed, resignedly. The list was far too long anyway. She could spend lifetimes playing chess and only bring back a fraction. 

“Ah well, it was worth a try.”

Death had fallen silent and the Doctor began to feel the weight of hidden eyes studying her for longer than she was entirely comfortable with. What did those eyes see when they watched her? 

STOP PLAYING GOD. BE YOURSELF.

And with that Death vanished in a puff of black smoke.

~o~

_The Almighty finally returned the morning of Adam's wedding. She claimed it was an accident and She had aimed for picking up Lucy after a couple of weeks. She then got very excited, talking about how much She loved weddings and how She'd be happy to officiate._

_Lucy stared Her down icily and declared that it was a **family** affair and She wasn't invited. He hadn’t endured years of dating, the chaos of university and the unfolding of years’ worth of courtship in order for his sworn enemy to sweep in and inveigle Herself as guest of honour._

_Adam's expression conveyed strange emotions, but then he agreed with his father and, to Lucy’s surprise, God did not argue. When the Almighty had left Adam turned to Lucy and there was a strangely triumphant look in his eyes. 'I'm guessing you're coming after all then?' 'Course', Lucy said, gruffly._

_In the eternal battle between him and God, this was a definite win._

_Adam merely smiled enigmatically and popped Lucy in his breast pocket, meaning that Satan, Ruler of Hell (previous), had an excellent view of the whole ceremony._

~o~

After Death’s departure the Doctor spent a good while sitting at the chessboard simply people watching. All around humans were chatting, arguing, drinking warm beverages and enjoying the sunshine. _Her_ humans. And above and below, _her_ angels and _her_ demons. A whole world that she had set in motion.

It had all seemed innocent enough fun to begin with — an exciting new place to explore and develop — but to the Doctor’s dismay it had turned into Responsibility. The Doctor wasn’t great with Responsibility. 

And as for giving her creation _purpose_ , in her experience people were usually only too keen on finding their own. It had never occurred to her that this would come under the Responsibility umbrella, which might have been why she’d gotten things so wrong.

Now she could redirect Heaven and Hell’s purpose from Armageddon to the Afterlife, which should make her a slightly better God, but she was beginning to worry that even this wasn’t enough. Sure, they were capable of thinking up torments or rewards, but they had no understanding of the _why_ of it all, and she had swiftly realised that Crowley’s plan would need a lot of fine tuning. Which meant yet more work. She sighed.

Not to mention Lucy, who was a whole headache in himself. How did you give someone a new purpose when their old purpose was entirely focussed on opposing _you_? She idly wondered if there had been any tips in Agnes Nutter’s new (and now destroyed) prophecies about how to reform the Prince of Darkness. She wouldn’t have minded a pointer or two. (In this, the Doctor was onto something. Agnes Nutter’s visions were perfectly tailored to the Doctor’s ramshackle, timey-wimey worldview, and the Doctor would have been able to read them as more or less factual news reports.)

The Doctor began to feel like she was going in increasingly narrower circles. And although she understood the need to take Responsibility, she couldn't babysit them forever and there was no one else, so what to do...

And what had Death meant by ‘Be yourself’? 

A deep furrow dented the Doctor’s smooth forehead as the Lord God Almighty did some unwelcome introspection. Again.

~o~

_‘Lucy. Please say hello to...' a beat, then Adam (looking simultaneously exhausted and so happy that Lucy was worried he'd break something) smiled and continued: 'Your granddaughter.'_

_Lucy looked at the tiny face, the tiny hands, the kicking legs, and remembered another baby, now many years ago. A baby placed in a basket and handed over to Hastur and Ligur to hand to the demon Crowley to hand to Satanic nuns to hand to an ambassador... It seemed lifetimes away, far longer than a scant three decades._

_‘Mum says she’s the spitting image of me when I was a baby,’ Adam noted with a wry smile, and Lucy was about to say something cutting when Adam looked up and fixed him with an intense look: ‘Did I… have a mother? Was there some kind of ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ thing going on?’_

_The question brought Lucy up short. Adam had never asked, not once in the nearly twenty years Lucy had been stuck with his son._

_‘No,’ he eventually replied. ‘I created you myself.’ (His little human time bomb. Thousands of years’ worth of planning tied up in an envelope of humanity… The boy was to have sat beside him on a throne of his own. His ultimate triumph, the final corruption of mankind.)_

_And in that moment, watching his granddaughter, he felt the final death knell of his plans. The boy would **never** bend to his will. _

_It seemed to him that on the face of the infant God’s final victory was inscribed._

~o~

When arriving to collect Lucy the Doctor realised she had missed the two week mark by a considerable margin, turning up on Adam’s wedding day instead. However Lucy’s aggressive _‘It’s a family affair’_ told her a good deal more than he suspected, and the Doctor had been struck by a new and rather excellent notion. (Well, more of an absurdly impossible new pipe dream, but she was, and always would be, the optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes, and the dreamer of improbable dreams.)

Because of this sudden inspiration she left a gap of several decades before returning. Lucy hadn’t said anything much when she showed up, but had indicated that he might like ‘a break’. 

Adam was, as far as the Doctor could tell, now in his sixties.

It was evening, and she had found a remote bench where she and Lucy could have a chat. The sunset was breathtakingly beautiful, painting the heavens in hues of orange and amber and looking for all the world like the sky of Gallifrey, and for a few moments the Doctor wasn’t sure if she could breathe through the keen loss. And she had been doing so well. But then this was Tadfield and the world had nearly ended here, she could sense it still; the aftertaste of an almost-apocalypse. A reminder that this Earth had nearly become a scorched ruin like her home… 

“Do you have any family?” Lucy asked — which was probably just a very lucky fluke, but in that moment felt like it was calculated to trip her up. She closed her eyes and did her best to steady herself. The bench felt real and solid beneath her, which was nice. She liked benches. 

“No,” she finally replied. “Not anymore.”

A pause, and when she turned she saw that Lucy was studying her thoughtfully from his jar.

“What do you mean?”

She looked back up at the sunset, parcelled the grief away where it usually lived and wondered at how much to reveal. Although, everything considered, she figured that honesty was probably necessary. Certainly if her ‘plan’ was going to work...

“Time was, I had children and grandchildren,” she eventually said. “But my whole world is dead now. Everyone is gone.”

The colours of the sky deepened and after many minutes’ silence Lucy spoke again.

“Why are you telling me this?”

The ghost of a smile touched the Doctor’s mouth.

“I’m not sure. Maybe because _you_ are now a father and a grandfather… I’m curious — what would you do if you lost your family?”

The words sat between them, and the Doctor slowly turned her head again to study the diminutive devil by her side. The last rays of the setting sun made the side of the jar look like it was dipped in molten light.

“I’ll lose them whatever happens,” Lucy answered after a moment. He was clearly trying to sound nonchalant and casual, but wasn’t doing a very good job of it. “They’re human. Their lives are… very short.”

A world was contained in those few sentences, a world of hope and of loss, of watching his child grow old, and the Doctor nodded.

“True. But they also keep multiplying. Give it a few centuries and you will have thousands of descendants. And I’ve gotta be honest — I didn’t see that coming. But I think it’s rather lovely.”

Lucy fell silent. She could almost see the cogs whirring in his mind. Then:

“You think…” he began. “You think I will refrain from destroying the world because I now have a personal investment.”

She could feel a satisfied smile slowly spreading across her face as she picked up the jar and looked into Lucy’s haughty eyes.

“Am I wrong?”

They held each other’s eyes for a long moment until Lucy abruptly looked away.

“What have you _done_ to me?” he asked, quiet horror in his voice, and she sighed softly.

“That would be the Ineffable Plan. I know it hurts. _Caring_ hurts. I’m sorry.”

“You… _planned_ this?” The accusation was pure fury, and she shook her head.

“Not in the way you think, it was more of a lucky fluke if I’m honest. But I know how you feel. I’ve cared about humans for… most of my life. And I’m glad that if anyone besides Aziraphale and Crowley is to understand what it’s like to love humanity it’s you.”

He glared, his next words low and deliberate.

“I really, _really_ hate you.”

“Me too,” she replied, setting the jar back on the bench amongst the growing darkness. “Me too.”

~o~

The meeting room in Heaven hadn’t changed much during the many centuries God had been absent. Indeed it was oddly like old times, except Dagon and Beelzebub were now seated at the table along with Gabriel, Michael and Uriel. Lucy was lounging in his glass jar.

They were all watching a live feed from the little house in Heaven where Bob was now living with his kitten, the simple joy of caring for the small life helping him unlearn a lifetime’s worth of anger and defensiveness. 

The Doctor more than suspected that Heaven had been modelled after ‘Somewhere That’s Green’ from _Little Shop of Horrors_ 3 — she vaguely remembered uploading a number of musicals to the Metatron’s database when she’d first created it, the idea being to round out his knowledge with a random selection of art. How she felt about this particular outcome she wasn’t sure. It was far too close to her personal idea of Hell to be in any way comfortable.

But it could be changed.

It was changing already.

The entirety of Bob’s neighbourhood was asking for pets, or painting and modifying their houses, or wanting to try skydiving or swimming with dolphins, or any number of things that had previously never been an option for the souls. It was spreading, like ripples in a pond, and the angels were already busier than they had been in a long time and would only be getting busier.

Although this meeting was proof positive that change wasn’t always easy. The Archangels and the demons worked very well together — almost surprisingly so — but although the _concept_ of the plan was simple enough, the Doctor wondered if she’d have to enrol them all in moral philosophy classes after all. They still seemed to lack the basic understanding of humans that was the key to the whole thing.

Although she had a secret weapon…

For now, however, she was pretending to be engrossed in playing Candy Crush on her phone, seemingly ignoring the unfolding discussions and paying zero attention to the pile of reports in the middle of the table. The Doctor could practically _feel_ Michael’s irritation and did her best not to grin. 

Listening to the debate it was clear that they understood the Plan and approved of the new system. Where it fell down was in their understanding of what motivated humans — redemption was an alien concept that they were struggling to define. Moreover the sheer amount of reorganisation still necessary was beginning to dawn on them. 

“So it’s about… bringing them to a point where they admit that they were wrong, yes? And are… sorry? And then they get a small furry animal?” Gabriel’s words were tentative. 

“Some of the animals have wings,” Uriel offered.

The Doctor glanced at Lucy’s jar, saw how he was burying his horned head in his hands. 

“We can’t keep an endlez zupply of…” Beelzebub’s eyes drifted to the report on the table in front of them, “…‘cute’ animalz in Hell. The hellhounds would eat them.”

“Lord?” Michael tried, but the Doctor waved a hand to silence her. “Sh, I’m so close…”

“Any animals will have to be stored in Heaven,” Dagon declared, and Uriel nodded. 

“I suppose we will have to keep them here. But we just had a small human soul ask for an ‘elephant’. Which then trampled a lot of flowers. Maybe we could do a curated list for the souls to choose from? Or make them all the same size?”

Candy Crush twinkled out its inane music and sound effects, and the Doctor saw the _second_ the whole situation got too much for Lucy. 

“IT’S NOT ABOUT THE ANIMALS!”

A sudden hush fell over the table. Lucy glared around at the assembled ethereal and occult beings from his jar. 

“A kitten was pivotal for Bob because of his _specific_ childhood trauma! Humans generally love cute pets, so sure, add an animal storage facility, but it’s of _zero_ importance in the overall scheme of things. The key… the key is that they care about something beside themselves and are willing to put everything on the line for it, with no hope of reward. For Bob it just _happened_ to be a kitten, but every single human will have different circumstances. So. Hell needs to render the damned utterly hopeless of _ever_ getting a reprieve, but also give them opportunities to help others. Do you understand?”

He didn’t seem to hold out much hope, but the Doctor put down her phone, grinning widely. This was what was needed: One of their own who could _translate_.

“Lord?” Uriel asked, uncertain, and the Doctor wanted to laugh with relief. The last issue on her list finally had a solution. 

“It’s not ‘Lord’.” She popped the phone back in a pocket, looking around them all: “My _name_ is the Doctor. I’m just an old Time Lord who happened to accidentally create a new universe and I… was not very good at being God, as you all seem to have figured out by this point. So I think you’ll be just _fine_ on your own from now on. You’ve got the Metatron for technical issues and information — and for anything else Lucy is clearly _more_ than capable of guiding you.”

She saw Lucy’s head snap up, a strange light in his eyes. Not the arrogant sneer of the past or contemptuous vindication, but something new. Maybe surprise. Possibly even hope. Although it was topped by a great deal of suspicion. She leaned over and unscrewed the lid of the jar.

“So before I go… one last thing to sort out.”

If pins existed in Heaven, you would have been able to hear one drop.

“Come on out old friend.”

Incredulous and hyper cautious Lucy climbed out of the jar and stood on the table, looking up at her.

“You know I hate you,” he stated, and she shrugged.

“Lots of people do. I have _excellent_ taste in enemies. However, your punishment was never supposed to be permanent.”

Incredulous silence greeted her words and she did her best to ignore it as she dug around in a pocket until she found her sonic (as usual with the Doctor the sonic was tangled up with a large selection of absurd and random items; an incomplete list can be produced upon request, although a yo-yo is a perennial favourite) and held it up with a flourish, pressing a button.

“There you go. You can stay as you are, or change. It’s up to you.”

Lucy appeared to concentrate and then shook his head, lifting an eyebrow.

“Well that was underwhelming,” he said, and the Doctor frowned and looked at the sonic again.

“Oh. Sorry. That was the setting for microwaving lasagne from Betelgeuse. It’s _lovely_ , they roast all the veg and add beetroot…” Taking in her audience she shook her head.

“Nevermind. Let’s try again.”

This time it definitely worked. Mere moments later Lucy was back to his original size (about the Doctor’s height, not the size of a building) but still standing on the table. Having to climb awkwardly down did not seem to improve his mood, especially since there was no spare chair. He stood by the end of the table and folded his arms across his bare red chest, studying her with deep mistrust.

Looking up into his cold black eyes she remembered when they’d been blue and joyful and recalled a kindred spirit she had been missing for years.

“So. Being in charge of all this is very simple: Treat every soul with the same care as you would Adam’s.”

He looked taken aback, clearly deeply wary. Letting him be in charge was the one thing she had said would never happen and she was handing it to him on a silver platter? There had to be a catch. He lifted his chin; scornful, rebellious.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because humanity is yours now, mate,” she grinned. “You’ll have too many descendants to keep track of them all. Unless you make the system fair for _everyone_ , you’ll end up hurting your own family, sooner or later.”

She mimed a microphone drop and grinned. Everything was going to turn out fine, she could _feel_ it.

And with that she got up, stepped away from the table and pressed another button on the sonic. The TARDIS — neatly stationed in a corner — became visible. With a snap of her fingers she opened the doors, but just as she was about to step through the doors a voice called out:

“ _Doc_ tor.”

The voice was soft and winsome and made her freeze mid-step.

As if in slow motion she turned, and saw… _Lucifer Morningstar_. Blue eyes, golden hair (shorter, but still with those amazing curls), that flirtatious smile. No wings, no white robe, but a sharp dark purple suit, paired with a black silk shirt.

He looked _stunning_ — and he knew it, the smug git.

The Doctor abruptly swallowed, because ‘Hello there mirror of my Best Enemy, have I just made a huge mistake?’ was now impossible to ignore. She was gambling her whole universe on the redemption of Satan himself… 

Lucifer tilted his head. “ _Seriously_? You are leaving _me_ in charge?”

She did a hair toss, affecting nonchalance.

“Sure. Well, I wanted something more Greek as I told you way back when, but I think that ship has sailed by now.”

“The Greeks had slaves,” he replied coolly, and for a moment all she could feel was relief. He _understood_. She might still have made a huge mistake, but at least they were able to communicate.

“I was thinking more of how they invented democracy,” she shot back.

“You wanted Heaven to be a _democracy_?” Lucifer asked, incredulity tinting the edge of his voice. “If that was the aim why in the name of _sanity_ did you arrange a hierarchy in the first place?”

This was the sort of question she had always been very adroit at avoiding. She pulled a face.

“Ended up with a whole bunch of angels by accident, so sort of… just went with Wikipedia?”

~o~

It was a moment that would be etched onto Lucifer’s memories forever more. The sort of pivotal moment that comes very rarely in someone’s life.

Adam had used Wikipedia extensively for his homework (with Lucy’s most explicit encouragement, since it was clearly cheating, plain and simple), and the Almighty’s admission made him suddenly flash back to the meeting in the classroom. A good few decades ago from his point of view, but he still remembered the way Adam and the Almighty had ‘hit it off’ straight away, somehow instinctively understanding each other. 

At the time he had just been angry. But now he was seeing the whole thing in a new light: ‘The Doctor’ had (according to her own admission, mere moments earlier) created the universe and the angels by accident. And, much like Adam, she’d reached for the easiest solution.

The epiphany was… somewhat painful. 

_‘I devoted **my whole life** to fighting and defeating this person, is it possible that I spent all that time fighting a mirage?’_

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he held up a hand, before slowly looking up needing confirmation.

“You arranged Heaven with the help of _Wikipedia_? Were you… were you just _making it up_ the whole time?”

She pulled another awkward face, much like Adam as a child when his parents had caught him in the middle of something naughty.

“Basically?”

And, with the most impish grin he had ever seen, she walked into her TARDIS before turning on the spot again and catching his eyes. “Good luck with it.”  
  
She winked, closed the door and… _left_.

There was a long silence after the sound of the engines had faded.

Lucifer stood motionless, staring at the empty space. Empty in more ways than one. _She had been making it up the whole time._

But if that was the case… then so could he! He blinked slowly. 

They were _free._

“So… what now?” Gabriel asked. He looked very lost. The others didn’t seem terribly concerned that God had left (and clearly hadn’t understood the significance of the conversation); instead they were watching Lucifer very carefully.

He took a moment to centre himself, to integrate the new truth. The only, basic truth of their life now. And… a truth no one beside himself was capable of grasping. ‘Freedom’ was an alien concept — there was nothing to say they had to stay here, but where else could they go? 

Besides which, Heaven and Hell were _his_ now. He finally had the keys to the kingdom.

Carefully he grabbed hold of God’s chair and took a seat. He briefly considered miracling his throne up from Hell, but it seemed a little tacky under the circumstances. 

Then he glanced at the screen where Bob was hugging his wife in an emotional reunion, whilst the kitten climbed up his leg. Despite himself he found himself smiling. What ridiculous creatures they were.

Looking up he set his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers, and flashed a grin at his subordinates. Back to work.

“What now, darlings? Well Gabe, let’s have a look at the reports.”

He held out his hand, and Gabriel — probably through sheer habit, he was always best at following direct orders — handed over the top one. Lucifer quickly skimmed through the main points. 

One of the celestial departments had decided to do a survey of some of the heavenly denizens, asking them what improvements they would most like to see. 

Pets were at the top of the list, along with bigger gardens and fast cars, but there were also a lot of more esoteric requests, like a house made of cake, anime holograms, a floating sphinx, an endless supply of candles and a disturbing number of wishes for childhood toys to be brought to life. 

“Well, clearly pets are what the people want.” He put the report down, tapped a finger on it. “A storage facility won’t be adequate. These people will want a specific beloved pet returned to them.”

( _‘Like Adam will want Dog,’_ he added mentally.)

“We will need to create a database specifically with pet information, so the angels dealing with the requests will be able to miracle up the right animal without any delays.”

He stopped, turned the idea on its head.

“On the other hand… We should create something similar in Hell, but dealing with phobias. We haven’t done anywhere _near_ enough work with the specific fears of the damned.”

Closing the report he looked up. “Beelzebub, Michael: Delegate this to whichever of your respective departments will be best suited to looking into it. Please make sure they calculate all issues and time scales associated with rolling it out across the board. I’m expecting reports on my desk as soon as possible.” 

He paused. This was usually when he’d be issuing threats, but… a move like that felt rather crude. Besides, he didn’t want any of them to rebel against _him_. So… magnanimity and participation were probably called for. 

“Although, do you have any suggestions or additions of your own before we move onto the next point on the agenda?”

A long moment, as the angels and demons sat in silence trying to digest what had happened. Then Michael smiled a smile of deep satisfaction. 

“It’s good to have you back, Lucifer.”

~o~

The Doctor spent a long while standing on the pavement outside A.Z. Fell, caught between contrition and pride. She disliked being wrong. Even more than that, she disliked someone _proving_ her wrong and having to eat her words.

She thought of Bob, and his simple, naked admission of the wrongs of his past, and took a deep breath. Why were humans so much better at this?

Pushing the door open and stepping inside, she saw the two of them raise their heads in surprise. The angel was in the process of organising his books and the demon was sprawled all over the sofa. The latter immediately began to exude vast amounts of hostility.

“Look, I’ve come to say sorry,” the Doctor began. “For… _everything_. But also specifically for hurting you and… erasing your memories. I-” She closed her eyes, counted to ten. “I was wrong and you were right. I have also come to say thank you for your new Ineffable Plan, it’s working out a treat.”

OK, that was the worst of it over. She tried a smile.

“I can’t undo the past, but I thought I could… OK, making amends sounds cheesy I know, but if you like I could take you on a trip? Anywhere in time and space. Or maybe I should rather say: Any _when_.”

Very few could say no to that offer, although Crowley looked like he was about to. But then Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he reached out and laid a hand on the demon’s sleeve.

“Wait-”

Crowley’s expression softened.

“Let me guess… You want to hear Jenny Lind again? I still remember your rhapsodies over ‘the Swedish Nightingale’.”

The angel looked momentarily conflicted, but then shook his head.

“No dear. Somewhere much more special.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) _‘I was to learn later in life that we tend to meet any new situation by reorganising; and what a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency, and demoralisation.’_  
>  -Attributed to Gaius Petronius Arbiter who was the ancient Roman author of the “Satyricon”. The footnote gave an approximate date of “circa A.D. 60”. However there is no manuscript or printed source earlier than a magazine article in 1957, so it’s probably much newer. However, the sentiment is surely timeless, and I like the idea of the actual Petronius being the author. He certainly could be in the Good Omens ‘verse.
> 
> 2) The ceramic frog is of course a reference to the solitract in _It Takes You Away_ , but it is _also_ a shout-out to Jeff from The Good Place, also known as [‘the frog guy’](https://i.insider.com/5f3c771542f43f001ddfda96?width=1100&format=jpeg&auto=webp). Jeff is an afterlife being who works as The Doorman, guarding The Door to Earth. He loves frogs. 
> 
> 3) [Little Shop of Horrors: Somewhere that's Green](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ouLiQ7KhmYU) (in case there is someone who is not familiar)
> 
> 4) Jenny Lind, also known as [The Swedish Nightingale](https://www.konserthuset.se/en/programme/calendar/exhibition/2020/jenny-lind-200-%C3%A5r/): I think Aziraphale would have adored her, and be forever upset that no records exist of her voice.
> 
> For Lucifer’s suit, I was thinking specifically of [this suit](https://www.gannett-cdn.com/-mm-/940e18e8ed32733f70df40c543cfea22edd56ad8/c=0-213-2517-3569/local/-/media/2015/12/14/USATODAY/USATODAY/635857320609797154-GTY-501371134-78298982.JPG) worn by John Boyega. 


End file.
